


Progression

by PashN



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Friendship, Not Following the Game's Plot 'By the Book', Romance, Sera and Iron Bull Not Recruited, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PashN/pseuds/PashN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts at Therinfal Redoubt, with a strangely-dressed man, his manner of speech even more strange. Some think he's a rogue, others think he's a mage, but she knows better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Worlds

It is cold – the weather, the stares she receives from the Templars as she passes them by. Even the fortress itself. It gives off a dark foul aura, the like of which she hadn't felt since walking through the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She has half a mind to ask Cassandra more about the background of this place – this Therinfal Redoubt – but then they reach the first gate and a masked nobleman approaches them, proud. 'Lord Esmeral Abernache', he introduces himself and she replies with a perfect, false smile. A mask of her own.

He gives her a lecture on the way to the castle, telling her what to do and what not to, and she has to stop herself from reminding him that she  _knows;_  she's learned more than enough of noblesse oblige before setting foot in the Ostwick circle. She settles on tuning him out instead to observe the environment, ever wary. The Veil is definitely thin here. There are shadows lingering in this place. Remnants of past atrocities. Or a death knell.

From the corner of her eye, she catches glimpses of a young man in faded leather, his large hat more than enough to set him apart from the rest of the crowd. He cannot be with the noble entourage, cannot be a servant – he walks too carefree to be one. He is definitely not a Templar.

Abernache asks her a question and she turns to him to reply. When she looks back at where the young man was, he is gone.

They finally reach the main gate and Abernache parts ways from her to mingle with others of 'his kind'. She pauses to regard the fortress towering before her. It is sombre, grim and tall. Its thick walls feel confining, like a prison, she thinks stepping into the courtyard. She is not welcome here and she knows.

Varric makes a jibe at the appearance of the place. He is trying to hide his discomfort behind humour, as always. He is a storyteller; his nonchalant facade cracks when he stays too quiet for too long.

The rain pours down faster than before. The storm is not about to stop for a long while.

"This place makes my hair stand on end," says Blackwall. Lilith thought he'd be more accustomed to feelings like this. Isn't it worse down in the Deep Roads?

She opens her mouth to voice that thought, but she stops, her gaze locking with that of the young man from before. He is sitting on the edge of a scaffolding to her right. There are no ladders nearby. Above him, a raven is perching atop a wooden beam. The Fade is unusually distorted in that area. Everything is unusual about this castle.  _Wrong._  She should have abandoned political decorum and brought Solas along. She could certainly use his advice right now.

"Herald?"

It is the same dark-skinned Templar she saw in Val Rayeaux, the one struggling under Lucius' command. Ser Barris, she learns his name is, and follows him as he ushers the group further into the castle, murmuring to her that the Lord Seeker has changed every plan to meet 'the Herald' in person. He, who not long ago spat on her name and called her insignificant.

"Be on your guard," she whispers to the others. She is now certain this is a trap.

It does not come as a surprise when they are attacked – she was expecting it, erecting a wall of ice in front before the arrows of the assailants could pierce her armour. When the battle is over and she takes off the helmet of a wounded Templar to interrogate him, however, she balks, the helm falling forgotten to the ground.

His features are monstrous.

He – it – doesn't live long enough to utter a word. The injuries were too much for it to handle and she was too shocked to offer it a poultice. She is still shocked, as is Barris, as is everyone else in the room. What is happening in this fortress?

She hears fighting and hastens her steps to get to the other untainted Templars. Her survival instinct tells her to stop, to back out and wait for reinforcement to arrive. She's certain Lelianna's spies were present in the courtyard. They must have sent out a message by now. She quells that premonition and moves on.

" _You will be so much more."_

She halts.

"Was that the Lord Seeker?"

"I didn't hear anything," Varric replies.

" _Show me what you are."_

"Are you alright?" It's Varric again, a worried look on his face. What is she supposed to tell him? No, she is not?

She conjures a barrier and continues forward. There are documents scattered, on the tables and the ground, left by the Templars. The subject matter in most of them is familiar: the red lyrium. How could anyone knowingly ingest such a thing? How could anyone so easily forget Kirkwall?

They carve a path through the Red Templars to reach Lucius. He's waiting for them at the top of the stairs – waiting for her. It is foolish of her to approach him so unguarded. His attack is swift and not of the kind she expected. It feels like her Harrowing. It feels like the Fade. She tries to calm her nerves. She has to get out of here.

'Do not panic. Do not trust anything but yourself.' She recites her lessons from the Circle, resolute. She didn't survive a catastrophic explosion at the Conclave to die in this pitiful an attempt at reality-

The door behind her shuts and she spins round to face it, staff at the ready. Tentatively, she reaches for the handle and opens it, half expecting a demon to jump at her, but finds nothing hostile in the corridor. She edges outside the chamber-

"Wait."

Lilith sighs. This trick again.

She really shouldn't stop, shouldn't listen to this voice go on and on about Envy's intentions. She turns, and to her surprise, it is the strangely-dressed man from the courtyard. His manner of speech is even more strange. She immediately schools a neutral expression. If this is Envy's game, she will not let it learn more about her by showing extreme reactions. The ensuing conversation is mostly one-sided – she lets this  _Cole_ do the talking and reveals little about herself. And when he leaves through the door, she has no choice but to follow him; the room has only one exit.

He appears to be helpful and manages to get her out of the prison, and whatever comes out of his mouth seems to irk the dominant demon of this 'realm'. Still, she keeps three paces from him at all times and a barrier in place. She hasn't yet forgotten the  _Lucius_  incident.

When the nightmare is finally over, she finds no sign of Cole and does not make inquiries about him from the others. They are already shaken from the discovery of Envy's infiltration, and bringing up the matter of receiving aid from another Fade denizen would only worsen the situation. She doesn't want them to think she's in risk of possession.

It takes every ounce of their strength to overcome the demon and remaining Red Templar forces. Cassandra isn't happy that she's disbanded the Templar order. Blackwall isn't, either. Varric is quiet. Even he knows now is not the time to make jokes of the matter. She can already tell Cullen would chide her for a day, and frankly, she doesn't care. Lelianna was right; the Breach will not wait for their disagreements to settle.

As they begin marching back to Haven, Lilith looks over her shoulder at Therinfal Redoubt. There have been no signs of Cole after the final battle, but she has a feeling it wouldn't be the last time she saw of him.

* * *

Cullen didn't chide her that long for disbanding the order. He  _did_  give her a lecture for allowing Cole into the settlement, however, along with a look that said he was questioning her sanity. And she couldn't really blame him.

As far as they are concerned, the young man 'helped her' against Envy, except that no one could remember ever seeing him. She didn't disclose all the details. Solas knows, but he is different. Talking with him never feels like a chore, and even though she cannot yet call him a 'friend', there is mutual respect between them. And he is a fellow mage, so she does not have to filter everything when speaking with him. Vivienne is different. She always has expectations.

In the afternoon, Varric offers her to join them at the tavern for a celebration. She doesn't know for what. For arriving late at Therinal Redoubt and saving what little was left of the Templars – Envy's scraps? Most of them are dead, mutilated or worse. What is so victorious about it, when they are all too battered now to seal the Breach, and a nagging feeling tells her that the mages are forever lost?

She declines Varric's offer.

A cold breeze passes the expanse of the frozen lake before her, brushing over her face like an icy caress. Sitting on a stone near the river, she can see the green reflection of the Breach above on its surface. That gaping hole haunts her even here, where she tries to take refuge in the solitude, away from Haven. At least the wildlife do not revere her unquestionably and call her the Herald of Andraste at every turn, she thinks, absent-mindedly holding out an elfroot branch for a nug to nip at. She promised Cullen they'll save the soldiers held hostage at the Fallow Mire, but she doesn't want to break away from this relative peace and set out for a journey through the perilous tracks of the Frostback Mountains. Not yet. Maybe she's being selfish.

"The nugs like you."

She knows the owner of that rather boyish voice. Some think he's a rogue, others think he's a mage, but she knows better.

Looking to her left, she finds Cole standing less than three metres away from her. She didn't even hear his footsteps on the thick snow. Was she too absorbed in her thoughts or is this another one of his tricks?

"I like them, too," he adds.

Lilith turns her gaze back to the creatures playing at her feet. "They're too trusting," she says to fill the silence.

Her staff is nearby. She doubts it will be needed, but she cannot afford to be careless again. Solas once told her spirits can easily be perverted into demons. And while the idea of becoming possessed is always terrifying to a mage, her life now belongs to more people than only herself.

She regards the Mark on her hand with solemn consideration.

"Different. Dangerous. Motives are unclear. First Enchanter looks at me and says Guinevere didn't make it. Templars dispose of the body. Another failed Harrowing, another friend lost. Flissa waves at me from the tavern's doorway as I make my way to the stables, calls me the Herald. Hand aches as another pang of enegry pulses through it. Do not grimace. Do not show weakness. Stay strong. Cullen hands me a list of things to take care of. Lelianna hands me another of her own. Josephine approaches me, another problem with the nobility no doubt. Mother Giselle seeks me out. What is it now? My responsibilities. Cannot risk their lives. Should have left him back at Therinfal."

He finishes his soliloquy – her thoughts spoken aloud.

She raises her eyes to his but does not reply.

"I want to help," he states. There is hesitancy in his voice. She notices that he hasn't moved much ever since announcing his presence some minutes ago, as if an unexpected action might send her fleeing. Like a nug.

"Is that why you've come here?" she asks at length.

"Yes?" he says by way of a response. His blond hair is almost obscuring his eyes and she cannot tell if he is staring back at her or at the horizon, listening to someone else's thoughts. "Varric said you are leaving at nightfall. The song is too loud this close. It will be less defeaning farther away."

He slightly tilts his head forward and now Lilith is certain she has his full attention.

"I can kill things that hurt people. I will not cause trouble." His tone reminds her of a boy trying to convince a parent. The children at the Circle always used that when they wanted to stay awake past curfew, and it always worked on her. It was her weakness. She wonders if he knows it. He probably does.

Heaving a sigh, she stands up, dropping what's left of the elfroot to the ground. "We leave now."

* * *

Everything is wet here, and smells of decomposing bodies. She expected to get used to the retched odour after wandering in the area for this long, but that was a foolish thought.

They make use of the now empty apostate's camp to rest for the night. It is one of the few places where the dead don't rise whenever they disturb the swamp. The nearest Inquisition camp is too far.

"Look at what we've been reduced to: bogfisher stew," Varric says, tending to the fire under the pot.

"Hey!" Lilith interjects, raising her head from the map. "It took me ten minutes to take it down."

"If you'd seen half the things I had to eat in my journeys, you wouldn't complain this much," mentions Blackwall. He's been sharpening his sword with a whetstone for a while now.

Varric adds a bit of salt to the food. "If I wake up in the morning as a walking corpse, I'm blaming you two."

" _Wake up_? Does that mean I have to stand watch again?"

"I will." Lilith folds the map. "I don't feel that tired."

"See? Best leader in the world." Blackwall sets aside his weapon and edges closer to the fire. There is a chill in the air that even the high humidity cannot weaken.

"What happened to 'in death, sacrifice'?" asks Varric.

"I don't plan on dying tonight."

"You're not eating this stew?" The dwarf grabs a wooden bowl and pours some food into it. "Kid! Come over here! It'll taste worse when it cools."

Cole doesn't move from his spot, sitting on the ground near the water and hugging his legs close to his chest, back mostly turned to the group, listening intently – to what, Lilith doesn't know. He hasn't talked much ever since they arrived at the Fallow Mire, aside from announcing that the mud wants his feet to stay and asking Varric to talk to his shoelaces.

"I don't eat," he says in response.

Blackwalls takes the ladle from Varric and proceeds to fill his plate. "Yeah, I wouldn't either with your advertisement."

"I never eat," Cole clarifies.

Every gaze shifts to him. He doesn't seem to take notice. Or perhaps he doesn't care. He is very different to what she expected him to be.

"How do you survive?" she asks when it becomes clear that he doesn't plan on offering an explanation.

"The Fade sustains me. The old song is enough." He still doesn't turn to her as he replies. His back is a little hunched, and it makes her wonder if he's already tired – tired of keeping up with this world.

"Must be one bloody song if it makes you bleed every time you're hit with a sword," Blackwall remarks, dipping his bread piece in the soup.

"It is sad."

It is all he says in reply.

Many questions come to the forefront of her mind, but she keeps quiet about them. Now is not the place, nor the time.

"This actually tastes good," the warrior tells Varric after taking a sip of the stew. "How did you pull it off?"

The dwarf finds a spoon for himself from his backpack. "Oh, nothing. Just a pinch of deathroot."

Blackwall almost chokes and Varric chuckles at that. "I'm just messing with you. Grabbed some spice from the apothecary on the way out."

The next hour passes by with Blackwall and Varric telling tales of their expeditions. Some of them sound too outlandish to be true, and Lilith has to ask the dwarf if someone would  _really_ use a giant wyvern as a mount – a mount which cannot pass under low archways anyhow. Varric simply shrugs and says 'Orlesians'.

Blackwall is the first to tuck into his bedroll, which is already damp from the rain, like the rest of all their clothes, but he says he feels better with a blanket underneath him and a cover on. Even if it smells like the walking corpses they hunt. He too sometimes reminds Lilith of a young boy with insecurities. She wonders what's troubling him so all the time.

Varric stays awake for longer and tells her the joke about him sleeping and waking up in the morning was just that – a joke – and she should be the one to rest; he feels alright. She knows that's a lie. More than once she caught him stirring in his sleep, cold sweat on his forehead, murmuring about red lyrium, Kirkwall, 'his fault'. Cole attempts to get up, opens his mouth, and she is certain he wants to offer to stand watch.

" _Don't,"_  she thinks, knowing he can read her mind. Varric won't let him do it alone. He seems to have adopted the spirit, calls him 'the Kid'. He seems to have adopted everyone. As if the burden of his troubles alone isn't enough.

Half an hour later, he too falls asleep. The nightmares do not return tonight.

Grabbing her staff, she gets up and then goes to the edge of the camp, where she can still keep a watchful eye on the tents while gathering blood lotus.

"The water sings with the whispers of those long forgotten," Cole says, in a voice strangely serene. When she turns to him, he's staring at the distorted reflection of the moon on the murky pond. Perhaps bringing him along was not a good idea. Every inch of this place is enmeshed with agony and misery.

"The Breach is louder." It's meant to make her feel better about her decision of allowing him to tag along, but all it does is remind her of the problems back at Haven, the lives of hundreds attending the Conclave gone in the blink of an eye.

A moment later, she cannot remember what it was that was troubling her mind. She simply continues to pick up another blood lotus.

There are low splashing sounds to her right, and when she looks up, she sees Cole waist deep in the water, picking the plants she cannot reach from the safety of the ground. The icy temperature of the pond doesn't seem to bother him at all.

"What are they for?" he asks, eying a branch curiously.

Lilith resumes her activity. "Tears of the Dead – the poison which recipe we discovered back at the altars. Have you ever worked with one?"

She can tell his brow furrows in mild confusion even though it's hidden underneath his untidy hair strands. "No. The dead don't cry."

A smile tugs at her lips. "Poison I meant."

He takes a few heartbeats to consider her question. "I wanted to. Once." Then his voice takes that jaded quality which it has anytime he recalls a memory, a thought. "He's alone in the room. Too arrogant to think I would strike. I take out my dagger and reveal myself. There's fear in his eyes. It feels good. I don't know why. He tries to reach out for his sword, but his hand is already gone. Lambert's on his knees by my third strike. I'm dying! Help! I cannot even use Holy Smite!"

Her smile vanishes. She's heard enough rumours circulating among the rebel mages and Templars to know of whom Cole was talking about.

"You killed Lord Seeker Lambert." She sounds too impassive, even to herself.

Cole lifts his gaze to hers, and for the first time, she see something akin to anger in them. "He  _deserved_  to die." But that emotion soon dissipates to be replaced by deep melancholy. "He hurt so many people."

Lilith doesn't know how to respond so she goes back to gathering herbs. It's a good think they've grown like weeds in this area. She can pretend to be busy for a while. Solas said Cole is a spirit of compassion, but can Compassion really kill people so mercilessly on the field? She's seen how he takes down his targets, his daggers moving in a blur, leaving a bloody trail in their wake. Sometimes, he reminds her of vengeance, of rage. 'They hurt people,' he always reasons. She wonders if she's going to wake up with a dagger in her back one day because she made a bad call that hurt the Inquisition.

He's now staring straight at her, reading her mind no doubt, as if it is a book, left open for him to see. Lovely. Why does she even bother to conceal her feelings?

To her relief, his next question is not related to her opinion of him.

"The little elf hiding behind a big name and the big man hiding behind a title, feeling little... You refused their offer to help. Why?"

He must be referring to Sera from the Friends of Red Jenny and Iron Bull, the qunari spy.

"They didn't seem like a good match for the Inquisition," is her honest reply. Cole doesn't seem convinced so she continues: "Maybe it's to do with being raised in a noble family. You start to feel distrustful of people approaching you with big smiles and little cause. And accepting the aid of a self-proclaimed spy didn't seem wise with the threat of this  _Elder One_  looming over us."

The tips of her fingers are starting to feel numb from the cold and so she grabs the herbs she's gathered thus far and heads for the campfire. Casting a mild flame spell on the logs manages to create a comfortable warmth in the area, and while the uneven ground of the marsh cannot be mistaken for the carpeted floor of the Trevelyan estate, it is still cosy enough for her to take out the map of the bog she's been carrying around and become absorb in her tactical ideas for the Fallow Mire. If they could somehow get rid of the dead, the stench, and the overgrowing moss to build a secure path to traverse on the land, it could easily become a profitable avenue for the Inquisition and those dependable on its growth: the mountains here are rich with mineral deposits and the ground is perfect for harvesting herbs.

Lilith realises she hasn't heard the sound of movement in the water for a while, and casts a look over her shoulder to check on Cole.

He is no where to be found.

Exhaling, she briefly closes her eyes and then reaches for her staff before getting up. What is he up to now?

She hasn't taken more than a few steps in search for him before he comes into view, walking toward the camp, a fully bloomed Dawn lotus in his hand. Before she can ask him how he's managed to find such a rare plant, he speaks, answering her unspoken question: "It was humming a lullaby under a dark alcove."

She reaches a hand to take the flower from him. It is amazing that such a beautiful thing can grow in such a bleak land. Her gloved fingers tenderly touch one of its large petals. "Why did you pick it?" she asks lowly, eyes lingering on the plant in her palm.

"Its voice was being wasted, rooted to a dying log. Here, it can help."

Something tells her he wasn't only referring to the flower in that statement.

She regards him as he sits by the campfire and watches the flames, as if mesmerised. Maybe the flames talk to him too.

From this angle, she can see a clump of of moss hanging from the rim of his hat.

"Dove underwater?" Lilith comes to stand beside him, and when he raises his head, questioningly, she adds: "There's moss stuck to your hat."

She raises a hand to grab the edge of his headgear, but stops, expecting him to flinch away from her touch. He seems to tense but shows no other warning signs, and she brushes aside the dangling clump before taking the hat off to have a closer look.

It feels real, as if it has been made from actual materials. She recalls overhearing his conversation with Blackwall on the way to the Mire, with him claiming to have conjured his clothes from the Fade, using willpower alone. How is this possible? How is  _he_  possible?

"It fell into the water when I bent to pick a lotus."

He's answering her inquiry from a minute ago, she realises. He seems so different without his hat on. Like a normal person. Still sickly pale even in the warm light cast by the flames, but a normal person none the less. And his shoelaces have come untied again, she notes. Willpower might have gotten him out of the Fade, but he is going to need more than that to survive in this world. Might as well start by learning knots.

She kneels before him, setting aside his hat before reaching out for the shoelaces lying on the ground. "You grab them like this, creating two loops," Lilith explains, proceeding to do what she says, slowly, so he could easily see. "Cross the loops, and pass them through the space in the middle." She fastens the knot, yanking at it a bit to make sure it's not going to come undone. She looks back at him, hands remaining on his foot. "Got it?"

His face is expressionless at first, but then a tentative smile appears on his lips – the first one she's seen from him – and in these fleeting moments, his features seems so lively. She finds herself replying with a genuine smile of her own.

"When we're back at Haven, I'll tell Harritt to make new boots for you. With buckles instead. Like mine. You don't even have to worry about the laces coming untied."

She reaches for the headgear lying forgotten on the ground and picks it up, then places it back on his head. This time, he doesn't tense up.

"The little man hiding under a big hat," she finishes, using his own speech pattern.

The very first rays of sunlight dimly illuminate the sky, heralding the beginning of a new day, telling her that it's time for them to move on, return to Haven, and close the Breach in the sky once and for all. Perhaps she'll ask Josephine to schedule a celebration for the whole town. They really deserve this one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Scented_Candle and Catlantean for proofreading this and giving me their valued opinions. :)
> 
> Disclaimer - Dragon Age: Inquisition is the property of Bioware and Electronic Arts.


	2. Rebirth

_Battered. Bruised. Broken rib jabs at my chest as I limp forward in this snow-clad plain. There is a tent to my left, but it has long been abandoned. Too cold. Too quiet. Cannot stay. Have to press on. Leg drags on the icy surface, leaving a bloody trail behind. Cannot feel my fingers anymore. Where is everyone? Could have sent a search party. Could have come looking when things calmed down. Need to catch my breath... Need to close my eyes for a while... Too tired to move on..._

There are many voices in the area but not the one Cole tries to find. Desperately, he searches the survivors for the two people who don't flinch away every time he approaches them. Solas and Varric are tending to the wounded.

"She  _needs_  us!"

Varric's head instantly snaps up, relief washing over him. "She's alive?"

"Where is she now?" It's Cullen, rushing to the group, worried.

"I- I cannot hear anymore. Her voice is dying down." Cole strains to locate her, this woman they call the Herald. "Not Haven. She's left it long behind."

_Too much noise. So much pain and plea for help. Pulsing pressure on my mind. I'm dying! It hurts! Make it stop! Healer shakes his head in sorrow, walks away from the corpse. Bright green light shines from the palm of her hand. Where is she? Daniel's dying! Aid him now-_

"You think I don't care about her? You think I'm happy that she's not here with us?" Cullen tensely replies. But the irritation fades as he remembers the deaths, the screams, the burden of protecting those who survived, and he sighs, feeling the overwhelming emotion of loss suffocate him. "We cannot search the entire mountain, Varric."

The dwarf lets out an exasperated sigh. Solas remains silent, a subtle frown on his brow, his eyes distant as if concentrating on something far away.

Cullen speaks again, voice calmer and painted with melancholy: "We have people here –  _children_. We can't let them freeze to death."

Varric opens his mouth to respond, but Cole cuts across him. "We need to find her  _now!_ "

Solas shoulders his backpack before grabbing his staff. "Camp here. We'll be back by dawn," he says with certainty, and doesn't wait for an answer before setting out, steps resolute. Cole hurriedly goes after him, knowing Varric is close behind.

Wind bellows as it passes through the mountain, muting the howling of wolves. The ground doesn't let him move ahead, the blizzard even less so. Corpses buried deep under the snow whisper to him a never-ending macabre lullaby.  _Dancing, dreaming, there is a shadow on the wall. Darkened, dripping, a pool of blood on the floor. Frightened, fleeing, monsters knocking at my door. We were alive, but now no more..._

Varric shivers, draws his cowl closer to himself, breathes into his hands. Cole wishes the others were more like him, unbothered by the low temperature. He puts his hat on Varric's head. It doesn't help much but it does. Varric responds with a warm smile.

Half an hour later, snow stops falling from the sky. The wind is quieter now, but everything else is just so loud. He looks down at his feet as they trudge forward. The ground is coloured crimson, bleeding, but to the others, it's perfectly white, pure, pacifying. Why did people have to die? He vividly remembers the Elder One, walking to the top of the hill, watching, waiting. A dark empty void, vicious and visceral. Breaking the bindings trapping him for centuries, unbound now but bowing to a different song.

Snow crunches under his feet and he listens to its words instead. Less painful. Woven with memories of wandering in front of the stable to try his new boots. Not of the Fade, but of this world.  _Harritt is pleased with his work. Is it nugskin? He says no. Gentle breeze on my skin as I sit in the garden, reading a book – Beautiful thoughts, but not my own. Pine used to be one of my favourite trees. They look so forboding now. Ragged breath as I struggle to stay awake. My mouth feels dry. Movement in the horizon. Please not the Venatori. I'm in no state to fight-_

"I can hear!"

And he can see – a soft light, shining dimly in the darkness like a fallen star, near the edge of the pine forest. She's part of this malevolent world but makes a different melody. Captivating, like a siren's song sang in a faraway ocean.

Cole hastens his steps.

He reaches her before the others. She's on the ground, resting against a pine tree, lips pale, eyelids heavy. She's struggling to breathe.

"Pestered them enough to find me?"

She jokes? She's bleeding and battered and  _dying,_ and she jokes?

Solas reaches them the next moment. He helps her drink a restorative potion, says he'll attend to her wounds soon when she feels a little better. Varric jests he wants to hug her. Lilith says she can't afford to break more bones. Her voice is raspy and low, and the humour is lost when she coughs. She wasn't one for sarcasm before; she's simply attempting it for their sake now. He can briefly make her forget the pain, but what good will that do?

Her fingers are numb, cold as ice under her gloves. He wants to grab his hat from Varric's head and put it on hers instead, but the dwarf is away near Solas, making a temporary tent as the elf lights a fire.

Cole kneels before her in the snow and grabs her hands in his. It doesn't help. His hands are not much warmer.

"Little man with no hat..." she murmurs before drifting to sleep.

When he looks up, Solas is considering him with a calculated expression. The mage says nothing before resuming his work.

" _How_  did you find her, Chuckles?" Varric asks, astonished.

The elf tosses some dry branches into the flames, the corner of his lips turning upwards ever so slightly. "I am more resourceful than I seem, Master Tethras."

Cole knows, but the others don't. Solas is coloured like the Fade. When he speaks, his words carry the weight of ageless wisdom and regrets stretching into eternity. He told Cole not to tell anyone, not until he makes things right. His voice is always compelling and familiar in this world.

They move her closer to the fire, where Solas begins tending to her wounds. A gash running down her forearm. Dried blood on her temple, sticking to her platinum hair. Angry bruises on her wrist, black marks against her white skin.  _Can't do anything as he lifts me up from the ground, reciting horrors in my ears. The Mark is ripping at my flesh, at my soul. Every breath is agonising. Can't let him take the Anchor. Can't let him see my fear._   _Back aches as he slaps me against the trebuchet. If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me. Have to escape. Have to flee. There is no other choice but to dive into the abyss..._

She stirs in the bedroll, once, twice, before urging her eyelids to open. Too much effort to stay awake.

The elf doesn't cease his spellcasting, healing the injuries as best he can. "Herald."

"Now you're calling me that?" Her voice is hoarse, but stronger than before. "You're a sarcastic one, Solas, even if you try to pretend otherwise."

"I tend to prefer titles to given names. You are no exception." He closes the wound on her forearm. "Perhaps you should think of another one."

She can think of some, but they all bring forth memories of death and chaos. Muffled laughs and tears of joy twisting into screams, tangled tightly with trepidation.

Haven is forever gone.

"He calls himself Corypheus."

Solas pauses to regard her. She's staring unseeingly at the sky, thoughts distant, elsewhere. Varric stops poking at the fire, lowers his head, closes his eyes. The air tastes of sorrow, remorse and distress.  _What have I done?_ They all think in unison, each unaware of the others' pain. Cole doesn't know what to say. He wants to heal the hurt, but it'll cause more hurt in the process. He continues to watch from near the tent. They want to forget their mistakes and none want to forget.

Lilith is the first to break the silence. "He was carrying a magical orb, the like of which I'd never seen. I think it is the source of most of his powers."

Solas is surprised, but he hides it well before the others notice. When he speaks, it is as if he's entirely unaware of the mysteries. "Can you describe its appearance?"

"It was round." A deliberate quip.

The elf raises an eyebrow at that.

"I wasn't in a position to observe, Solas."

He cleans his hands with a cotton towel, but the blood remains no matter how much he wipes. "I'm sorry. It isn't your fault."

So many masks over their faces. Lies upon lies. Why so afraid of the truth?

"Can't you get something on him from the Fade?" Varric asks. "A guy like that must reek black ooze of undying evil."

"People tend to  _avoid_  such things in the Beyond."

Lilith attempts to sit up. Her chest aches, but she ignores it. She's been through worse, and with the looming threat, they cannot linger here for long. "He claimed to be an ancient Magister."

"He sings with those buried deep beneath the ground. He sings for others an utterly different song. Enthralled and enthralling at the same time."

She turns to Cole. He's staring at a place past the tree line, to the south, where Haven used to be once...

"Can you walk?" Solas asks, drawing her attention back to the present. "We should head back to the Inquisition camps."

"Yes." She hasn't even asked them about the others, focused on her own survival, on the past. The fact that Solas hasn't mentioned anything thus far could only be a good thing; he's never been one to beat around the bush. The people should be relatively safe for the time.

Using her staff as a support, Lilith gets to her feet. "Thank you for all you've done," she tells them with a soft smile. "I don't think I could have-"

"Ah,  _please,_ " the dwarf interrupts, helping Cole pack their belongings. "You would've most likely passed out for a few minutes, then woken up and braved the mountains again on your own like those epic heroes everyone sees in adventure stories."

"They do tend to die, Varric."

"Not the protagonist. Not unless the writer is too lazy to finish the book."

"Weren't you the one to tell me about tragedies?"

Varric looks pointedly at the two mages. "I have a good feeling this will be a romance."

Solas doesn't dignify that with an answer, but Lilith doesn't hold back her retort. "With that grasp over reality, no wonder  _Swords and Shields_  turned to be a flop."

"Hey!"

They're happy for a few heartbeats, but then it fades, fast. Like white smoke vanishing by a breeze in a desert night, sand being scattered by the wind. Fragile. They do not talk much on the way back. When the silence becomes tangible – an uncomfortable weight pressing down on their skin, thick like a veil – Varric breaks it by telling them a story about daisies and copper marigolds. A memory from another place, another life. When things were brighter in a dark town named Kirkwall. He misses it, but wants to be away from it at the same time.  _It's all my fault. My fault. Bringing the world down to its knees for a few trinkets from the Deep Roads._

The whispers become louder again when the tents become visible, illuminated by the campfire. Warm, waning and weak. Refugees lying on the ground, some too fatigued to stand, others resting forever. Dead.

As they near the Inquisition camps, Solas slows down his pace so she can walk ahead of them. When Varric looks up at him, inquiring, the mage pensively says, "They need to see her before us."

And they do. They rush towards her, hearts beating with hope, with faith. 'She's returned to us. She's back.' They follow her, circle her, as if she's a beacon. They sing a hymn in her honour. She doesn't like the attention; she knows she was dying back at the forest.  _I'm no one special. An unlucky person, at the wrong place at the wrong time. I used to believe. I want to. But I can't._   _So much worry. So much doubt._ Some consider her a prophet, blessed. Others think she's more, too humble to reveal it. 'She keeps rising where others fail, does she not?' they murmur to each other, glad to have her here.

Solas approaches her with purpose, whispers something close to her ear before walking away from the camp, knowing she will follow. He is glad to have her here too, but for his own reasons.

"Kid."

Cole looks down at the dwarf, holding out his leather hat. His head doesn't miss it much.

"You can keep it."

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass up." Then Varric stands on his tiptoes to place the hat on Cole's head. "There. Back to your usual sunflower self. Hmm, maybe I should change your nickname."

"Flowers wilt."

"So do kids, in a way." Varric's mouth twists with distaste and humour. "When they hit adolescence."

"I like 'Kid'." He really does. And Varric says he wasn't planning on changing that nickname anyway;  _Kid'_ s easier to pronounce. He says goodnight before going for his tent, thinking of his childhood. His father. Another one of the hurts he wants to keep and not forget. Why do people want to cling to such things and not let go, wash clean?

Things used to be easier before. Simpler. When he could help people and not be remembered. Now their eyes stick, confused and questioning. He's not part of this world he desperately tries to be.

Sometimes, it feels like he, too, is starting to wilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my betas and those who left comments and kudos.
> 
> I've already written about a third of the next chapter, and am mapping chapter four. I haven't yet decided from whose perspective I'm going to write that one. (It works relatively well from both Cole's and Trevelyan's.) So if you have any perspective preferences for chapter four, let me know, and I'll see if I can implement it. :)


	3. Revelations

The first attack catches it unawares – a mild lightening spell meant to paralyse and not burn through the flesh. When the stunning effect is over, it tries to get away. The cave is near and it's a good hiding spot. It can rest there; it can heal. Its efforts to flee are interrupted when a Winter's Grasp freezes it on the spot. As the ice melts away, the creature falls limply to the ground, dead. 

Lilith ruefully regards the ram lying on the snow. She takes no delight in hunting wildlife, but they've used most of their resources in the past three days after the siege of Haven. Cullen insisted the soldiers could take care of this, but she didn't want to leave everything on their shoulders. Morale is very low – even a child can tell that. It comforts them when they see she's trying her best to make things better. She's done this before at the Crossroads in the Hinterlands, and the Inquisition feels more like family to her than those strangers on a faraway land. 

A barrage of icy particles arcs over her head to seek a ram hiding behind the bushes. The prey instantly dies, not finding the chance to even move a limb. Lilith turns around to face the predator. 

“They feel less pain if you kill them by your first strike,” Solas equably says, approaching the body. “Don't cuddle your targets.” 

“Not everyone has your experience of hunting in the wilderness.” Lilith takes out the rope from her knapsack and ties it around leg of her own quarry. “Although, I image you are one of those who prefer to pick berries.” She doesn't mean to sound insulting and it's a relief when he doesn't take it as a gibe. 

“You can't survive on berries alone for years. And it is not a matter of experience, but conscious,” she hears him say as he walks past her, dragging his prey with ease towards the wagon holding the rest of their quarries. She falls into step beside him, quiet. 

From here, the Inquisition camps down in the valley are visible. It's too far to clearly spot its inhabitants, but she knows that they are there, waiting for her to arrive. She has become a symbol of hope – a guardian – guiding them through these mountains to a different haven, a sanctuary promised. It has been difficult – surviving in the harsh climate of the mountain, salvaging everything they could to get by, fearful, always sleeping with the notion that they could be ambushed at any moment. And what she's going through right now is the everyday life of the Dalish. At least she has a destination in this journey, a new home to reach. The elves are doomed to stay nomadic forever. 

She turns her gaze to the elf striding to her right, tall, almost regal. Not the type of forced imperiousness that Vivienne carries, a shell formed by years of hardship and competition in the Circle, entwined by a desire to be top at the Game. His feels inherent, and if he weren't an elf in drabs, Lilith would have thought he was born nobility.

“How long have you been living alone, Solas?” 

As soon as it leaves her mouth, she regrets it. Whatever his reasons are for choosing a life of seclusion, they can't be pleasant. Nobody likes to be a recluse for such an extended period, not unless they harbour an agonising memory of a past event, a deep wound that even the passage of time hasn't healed. 

“Forgive me. I shouldn't have prodded,” she adds. 

“It is alright,” he placidly replies. “And it is not the first time I hear it, nor will it be the last. Do you assume Leliana and Cassandra allowed me into Haven without digging up my personal history?” 

No she doesn't. Cassandra, in a poor attempt at building friendship, had bluntly told her that. It was meant as an olive branch, but all it did was alienate her. 

They reach their horses and Solas proceeds to place their quarries next to the others in the carriage. It doesn't fail her notice that he actually didn't answer her question, but she lets that slide in favour of bringing up something which has piqued her interest ever since they first met. Back then, they were strangers struggling to survive in a demon-infested valley. Now, it is a completely different matter. 

“Is your amulet enchanted?” 

“Filling in a requisition for the Spymaster?” He doesn't pause his activity, but the subtle lilt in his tone tells her he's finding this mildly amusing. 

She offers him her reasoning: “You are someone who deeply respects nature, so carrying a wolf jawbone around the neck is a...” She searches for the right word. “curious thing. Is it related to elven culture?” 

“In part.” A ghost of a smile appears on his lips, as if he's taking delight in a secret of which she is totally unawares. 

“We had confiscated Dalish tomes in the restricted section of our Circle's library, but I never manage to-” 

The muffled sound of explosion rings through the mountain. Frightened birds fly away from the trees in the northern hills. That must be where the commotion originated.

Staves drawn, both mages cautiously head in the direction of the disturbance, away from the Inquisition camps down in the valley. Is it Corypheus? Have they already been found? Someone should be warning Cullen because Lilith doubts they heard the explosion from that distance- 

There's stirring in the tall shrubbery behind, a twine snapping, and before she can blink, Solas is casting a reflexive mind blast. A distinct thud reaches her ears as someone is hurled into a tree, accompanied by a grunt that is familiarly Dorian's. 

“It's us!” calls out Varric, appearing a second later from around the bushes, Bianca drawn but not aimed. 

Past the dwarf, Lilith finds Cole and Dorian on the other side of the shrubbery, the latter slumped against a tree, messaging his sore shoulder, the elfroots he'd gathered strewn upon the ground. 

“Was that really necessary?” he groans at Solas as the elf comes to view.

“You could be Venatori.” 

And that brings their attention back to the matter hand. 

“Did you hear that, too?” asks Varric. 

“It came from the northern hills,” Lilith replies before facing Cole, the only person who can traverse undetected if enemies are along the way. “Our carriage is just around the corner. Get back to the camp and warn Cullen, and Cullen alone. Let him handle the rest.” The last thing she wants is for the refugees to go into panic. 

The hesitancy in his countenance is a telling sign he wants to stay and help – because if it's Corypheus, they'll be outpowered – but after brief deliberation, he gives in. Someone has to act as a courier. 

And then he leaves, body shrouding itself in hazy smoke before vanishing from sight altogether. 

Wasting no time, she walks in the opposite direction, the others following her, weapons at the ready. Her observant eyes scan their surroundings, planning manoeuvres, because if they run into an ambush, there will hardly be any time to think. The vegetation in this part of the mountain is dense, and should the need arise, could be used as means for concealment. Unfortunately, their opponents would have the same advantage. What this area lacks is proper cover, and if they get into a fight, there will be nothing to shield them from the assault; they'll have to rely on barrier alone, and at best, that can only sustain for a few heartbeats. 

When they're much closer to their destination, barks of command become audible, and the group hasten their steps to reach the source, taking care to remain quiet. A clearing in the forest becomes visible, and there, at the far end, near the edges of a ruin, a dozen men. Armed, alert, and definitely Venatori. 

“Spies?” Dorian murmurs to her right. 

“They seem to be excavating,” states Solas. And as if on cue, another explosion occurs at the ruin entrance, this one managing to clear the cave-in. 

They should be unaware of the Inquisition's presence here, otherwise they wouldn't have created such racket. That, at least, is a relief. 

“What are we gonna do?” asks Varric. 

They can be left alone to dig in while the Inquisition relocates, but that means losing a possible lead. She knows close to nothing about Corypheus' plans aside from the fact that he wants Empress Celene dead. What's in that ruin that they're trying so desperately to get in? 

Lilith carefully scans the fields: two spellbinders ahead near some crates – possibly explosives. Another mage at the ruin entrance, standing beside a gladiator, three swordsmen protecting their flank. A pair of marksmen on the elevated ground to the left, watchful. A brute to the right, arms crossed, lazily listening to the conversation of the other warriors closeby. He lets out a sigh, obviously bored, then proceeds to survey the trees. 

This can get very ugly, very fast. They'll have to dispatch their enemies quickly before they get the chance to retaliate.

Lilith retrieves a Pitch grenade from her satchel and hands it to Varric. “Solas, try to delay the brute. Dorian, keep his companions busy. Varric, hit the explosives.” 

“And the guardian?” the dwarf asks, rechecking Bianca's bolt cartridge before aiming. 

“I'll take care of him.” 

After finding a good place behind the shrubbery to hide his position from enemy sight, Varric shoots at the explosives. The crates burst into an engulfing inferno, burning the two spellbinders, their screams catching the attention of the other Venatori. Using the distraction to her advantage, Lilith paralyses the archers with chain lightening. That gives Solas and Dorian the brief window needed to run to the other side, where the marksmen won't have a clear shot.

Not losing a beat, Lilith fade steps across the field and through the last spellbinder. Materialised behind him, she plants an ice mine underneath his feet before focusing on the gladiator. The man slams his shield to the ground and charges forward. Using her last resort of mana, she hits him with Winter's Grasp, but it only manages to chill him and not freeze him on the spot: his armour has ice resistance. Cursing under her breath, she sidesteps to the left, dodging his attack by mere inches. From the corner of her eye, she catches glimpses of the spellbinder cracking the ice he's been encased in. She needs to improvise. Fast. 

With a swift motion, she brings up her staff and impales the mage in the abdomen with its bladed end, and before he can react, she yanks it out and swings it at his temple with all her might, cracking his skull.

An agonised scream from the other side of the clearing makes her halt, fearful. For a second she thinks it's Dorian, but then she sees the Venatori warrior struggling to overcome Horror. That distraction costs her dearly. A shield is forcefully bashed into her side, sending her into a crate, shattering it. Sharp pain shots through her spine as her back collides with the ground, her breath knocked out of her lungs. Before she can move, a heavy boot steps on her chest, pinning her down. Lilith lifts her hand to conjure a bolt of lightning at the same time the gladiator raises his sword to strike her down, but then two daggers thrust out of his chest, right where his lungs are. A second of shocked silence as he stares down at the blades, blood trailing down from his mouth, and then the weapons are yanked out of his body. The man falls to the ground to reveal Cole standing behind him, the daggers in his hands stained crimson. 

Lilith quickly gets back to her feet, at a loss. “What are you-” 

An arrow whirls past their heads, barely missing its mark. She ducks behind a crate, her gaze fleeting to where Cole was. He is already gone. 

Edging out of her cover, she hits the marksmen with another chain lightening. One manages to evade the danger and release a burst of arrows in her direction. Instantly, she erects a wall of ice, shielding herself from the attack. The cold radiating from the protective layer reshapes her magical aura into an icy armour. Leaning out of her temporary shelter, she casts a Winter's Grasp on the paralysed rogue, killing him. The remaining archer fully draws back the string of his bow, but before he can release the arrow, Cole ghosts through him, manifests behind the injured Venatori and lands three successive blows with his daggers, the third strike aimed at his throat, cutting the artery open. By the time the man slumps onto the snow, gurgling on his own blood, Cole has already left his side, enshrouded in shadows, heading for the brute wreaking havoc. 

Of the four swordsmen who were accompanying the dual-wielding warrior, two are already dead, another one crawling on the ground, trying to reach his fallen weapon. He is hit be a Veilstrike snapping his neck. Using fade step to zoom across the battlefield, Lilith reaches Dorian. He seems fatigued, but otherwise alright, and the fireball he casts finally kills the last guard. That leaves only the brute. 

The towering Venatori lets out an angry cry and lunges for Solas, intent to kill the mage who's been nullifying his attacks for the past several minutes. His attempt is interrupted by a crossbow bolt grazing his helmet, his heavily guarded armour shielding its wearer from a shot meant to penetrate the skull. Before he can continue, Lilith entraps him in an ice mine. It doesn't stop him altogether, but creates opening for future attacks nonetheless. The Mark can make quick work of the brute, but Solas and Varric are too close to him, and shouting across the plain for them to clear out defeats the purpose of catching the Venatori unawares. 

A glass flask is tossed through the air to smash right at the feet of the brute, releasing a dense obscuring smoke. The man stumbles back, chocking, never seeing the incoming blow – a dagger piercing his armour, sliding between his shoulder blades. He lets out an enraged howl and swings his axe, the weapon catching nothing but air. Taking the chance, Lilith surges forward and through the warrior, locking him in a sheet of ice in her wake. That finally lowers his guard, and before he can retaliate by throwing his axe at Trevelyan, Cole appears at his flank and brings down both daggers to impale the Venatori at the base of his neck, the weapons pushed through the flesh to the hilt, severing his spinal cord and windpipe. The brute goes limp, life fleeing from his body, and when Cole pulls out the blades, it's only the sound of ripping flesh that breaks the eerie quiet befallen on the battlefield. 

He stands still in the diffusing smoke, head bowed, the large brim of his hat obscuring his face. Blood drips from the edge of his daggers onto the snow, next to the corpse lying by his feet – evidence that underneath the faded leather and unusual headgear lies a killing machine. 

“Kid? What are you doing here?” Varric asks nonplussed, before Lilith can speak.

Cole looks up. His wide eyes and serene features are in sharp contrast to his rigid stance, his armour stained scarlet. 

“I came back to help,” he replies, in a boyish voice laced with innocence. The final piece needed to complete the irony. 

“Did you warn Cullen?” she inquires.

“Yes.” 

And then she starts searching the bodies for any order notes, anything valuable, Dorian and Varric following suit, the former joking about plundering the riches of his own countrymen and that his family would be proud. It almost brings a smile to her lips, how he can find the bright side in everything. Or perhaps it's a defense mechanism, hiding the painful truth beneath a masquerade of sarcasm. 

From the inner pocket of the spellbinder's robe she finds a tattered book on entropy and blood magic, along with a note written presumably in his own handwriting, going on about how he'd like to be transferred to the operation at the Still Ruins. Where is that place? She's never heard of it, and neither has Solas. He suggests it's probably a name bestowed by the Venatori and not its 'official' one. Lilith briefly wonders if Cole can read the memories of the dead too, but when she raises her head, she finds him standing three paces away, gaze fixed at the ruin entrance, a haunted distant expression on his face. 

“What's wrong?”

“The mountain sings...” There is something very much like a hint of fear in his voice. “You don't want to listen to it.” 

Staff at the ready, she approaches the doorway, and when her eyes take in the sight inside the ruin, she halts, dread washing over her: huge towering veins of red lyrium spiralling to the ceiling, filling every inch of the place. The other corrupted source of lyrium she knows of in the Frostback Mountains is at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. How is it spreading this fast? Why would the Venatori require such an enormous deposit if not for amassing a Red Templar army? She thought they died with Therinfal Redoubt. How foolish of her to assume things were going to be easy. 

They burn all the bodies before leaving the area; this location is likely not a secret to other Venatori, and it won't be long before they come to check on their group here. It's better they think the killings were the work of rage demons and fire wraiths than the Inquisition. 

Sadly, nothing can be done about the red lyrium.

When they're near the camps, Lilith sends Cole to retrieve travelling cloaks for all of them, because their blood-soaked armour are the last thing the refugees need to witness. Upon noticing her arrival, Cullen rushes to her side, relief washing over him, saying he wanted to send a search party. She tells him they ran into Venatori excavating and that they have to relocate before others get suspicious and decide to scan the valley. He reminds her they just settled here in the morning – How is he to convince the refugees? 

“Tell them the scouts saw storm clouds approaching. There will be blizzard soon- I don't know. Make something up.” And then she departs before he can lengthen the conversation any further. There are more pressing matters at hand. 

Outside the tent in the secluded area of the camp is where she finds Leliana, giving orders to her scouts. Spotting the Herald, she stops talking to her agents to address Lilith instead, ever curious and questioning, beginning with inquiring about the mage's whereabouts, because apparently, Cole hadn't paused to give them directions before vanishing. Lilith tells her they have a problem and the other woman's features immediately darken a shade, her brow furrowing slightly, realising that yet again, her sources have failed to inform them of impending danger. “Corypheus?” she asks, and in answer, Lilith tells her of what transpired in the afternoon and that they _must be_ accumulating Red Templars somewhere.

“Are people missing?”

“Not in Ferelden. No,” Leliana replies. She promises to find more information as soon as possible, a look of determination on her face. Lilith responds with a resigned nod before retreating to her tent. 

It is almost sunset when they relocate to a more secure location. By the time they settle in, the sky is already dark. Cullen doubles the guard patrol and Leliana stations agents to monitor enemy movement in the nearby forest and warn the Inquisition should the Venatori get too close. If the refugees are suspecting anything, they don't mention it. All Lilith receives from them as she passes by are words of thanks for the quarries, murmured prayers and bows of reverence. 'Maker bless you', 'Our Lady Herald'. At one point in time, 'Andraste' has finally fallen from her title. Now she's called 'The Chosen of our Maker'. It is scary, how they compare her to Andraste – the woman who was betrayed and set ablaze. 

It is past midnight, but sleep's still eluding her. Maybe it's for the best; she has a feeling tonight's dream will be a nightmare. 

With a sigh, she grabs her coat before leaving her tent. It is silent outside, save for the muffled noises made by faraway forest creatures, gentle crunching of snow under the feet of a patrolling guard, the _sotto voce_ of wood burning in the campfire. She quietly makes her way to the makeshift apothecary table at the other side of the camp. The elfroots Dorian and Varric gathered are lying neatly atop it. She takes a seat behind the table, placing the book she took from the spellbinder on its unoccupied space. The cover is stained with blood, darkened – too old to be for the tome's last owner. It seems he, too, had obtained the book the way _she_ did: by killing its former possessor. The pages are too dry, almost cracking under the touch, and Lilith takes extra care turning them as she reads their content in the soft candlelight. Diagrams for glyphs, instructions to blood magic rituals, some familiar, others unheard of. Not that her knowledge of this particular school is vast; she's never tried it before, considering using the life force of another unethical and utterly barbaric. 

But would it be so bad if said source comes from an enemy in battle? 

She turns the page, quelling the temptation, the whispers at the back of her mind. Among the scrawled notes on a spell, the phrase 'power bound in time' is underlined. Maybe Dorian would know... 

Sensing a gaze on her, she looks up to find Cole standing ahead, some metres away. His fingers are busy playing with something in his hands she can't see from her position. 

“Is there something you wanted, Cole?” she asks when the silence between them stretches out of the comfortable zone. 

“My ring doesn't hum correctly.” His hands stop fidgetting to reveal a silver band – the enchanted one she gave to him on the way to the Fallow Mire. When Lilith regards him, confused, he clarifies, “Its magic has become weak. Can you check it?” 

She uses an elfroot leaf to bookmark the page she were reading before closing the book, motioning for him to come near. He places the ring in her open palm before sitting on the chair opposite her when offered. 

Drawing the candlestick closer, she observes the accessory. He is right. The enchantment isn't working, but it hasn't worn off. Just counteracted by a potent magical residue, probably used as resistance coating on the armour of the Venatori he eliminated. The knowledge brings that day's event to the forefront of her memory, and with it, something which piques her interest. 

“Where did you learn to fight, Cole?” asks Lilith, cleaning the ring with a cotton towel. 

“Nowhere,” he says in a way as if it is obvious.

“I've seen many demons – spirits – in the past several weeks, and none of them fight as you do.” 

“You don't fight as Varric does.” 

“I'm a mage.” She retorts, “And Varric doesn't let anyone touch Bianca, I'll have you know.” 

He lifts a finger to gently nudge the tip of an elfroot branch, then traces the edge of the table, all the way to where the tome is sitting, to rest a digit upon the blood marks of its cover. “I listen to the song, then follow the steps,” he says. She thinks he's humming a tune under his breath, but it's too quiet to be audible. 

“To what?” 

“To dance. You just have to move your daggers instead of your feet.” 

She pauses her activity to gaze up at him. His head is tilted to one side, eyes following the movement of his finger as it traces invisible lines on the table to form unseeing patterns – the glyphs found in the book. 

“It's a very deadly dance,” Lilith softly whispers, mostly to herself. 

He stops drawing, palm laying flat on the wooden surface as he watches the candle burn, and she goes back to her work, thinking he's listening to the thoughts of others as usual. But then he speaks, in a voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Did you wilt when you 'hit adolescence'?” 

Of all the things she expected Cole to ask, that was not one of them. 

“It was Dorian, wasn't it?” 

“It was Varric.” And then, innocently: “Was it rude?” 

“No, just...” She puts the cotton towel aside. “unexpected.” 

“I'm afraid you have to elaborate, Cole, because I don't remember ever drooping when I was twelve.” Lilith hands him the now clean ring, and waits for his reaction.

“Oh.” It's all he utters in response. Then he wears the band again and murmurs 'thank you' before standing up to leave, a subtle frown on his brow. He's confused, and perhaps a bit disappointed. That was not the answer he was hoping for, and she knows. Always seeing the world through thoughts and emotions. 

He's already taken several steps away from her when she speaks. A pensive admission. “Things used to be purer and more beautiful when I was younger. So yes, I did wilt a lot.” 

That, is the answer he's looking for. An idea. An experience tangible and real. Like back in the Fade. 

“Can't you take it back?”

It sounds so like him to want to fix everything, even the impossible, because where he came from 'impossible' doesn't exist as long as you can imagine, and dream. Wishful thinking is enough. A wonderful and pitiful realm at the same time, where you would wallow in stagnation forever, in the endless nothingness to be changed to _something_ by a whim. The ever-evolving world in which you'll never evolve.

“When innocence is lost, it is usually lost forever,” Lilith replies at length. “Try to hold onto yours while it lasts.”

That seems to sadden him a bit. Or maybe it's her loud, loud thoughts about the harsh realities of the Fade, and the even harsher truths of life beyond it. 

“How did you lose it?” 

A sombre smile appears on her lips. “I learned too much. And too little.”

She exhales and draws the tome closer to her, opening it back to the bookmarked page. 

 _'_ _There is nothing able to withstand a powerful mage's will, even the very fabric of reality._ _Many believe it, but few are those who dare to test the boundaries.'_  

“You still shine brighter than the others here.” 

Lilith snorts softly, eyes lingering on the text in front of her. “Thanks. Even though I know it was said for the sake of lifting my mood, Spirit of Compassion.” 

“It was not.” 

A whisper, not meant for her ears, but she hears it anyway. 

Unsure, Lilith raises her head to look at Cole, but he is already gone.

 


	4. Curtains

The courtyard is crowded. So many people in so small a place. So many voices. But for the first time in the past week, they're not all in agony.

They stare up at her – wishful, waiting, wondering – as Cassandra whispers things at her and she whispers back. The Nightingale holds out a sword for her to take, but she doesn't. Not right away. The others think she's being modest, but in truth, she's uncertain. The burden is already too much to carry.  _What if I fail? Have they learnt nothing from Haven?_  Yes, they have. And no, they haven't.

They become more desperate, more hopeful, as Cullen rallies them. They want her to shed the old confining shell and take up a new mantle. Something more than just the 'The Herald'. Something called 'The Inquisitor'. They want her to be their leader now. It's strange; she's always been from the very beginning.

On their third encouraging shout, she finally gives in, raising the sword high to the sky. An unspoken promise. The old shell doesn't crack. It only becomes more thickened.

"Why didn't they give her a staff?"

"It's symbolic, Kid," the dwarf standing beside him replies.

It is really odd. Swords are meant to kill. To cut, and not create bonds. Cole wants to tell that to Varric, but he's already lost in thoughts. Memories, anguish and regret woven through every fibre of them, twisted and dark. Memories of hawks, long forgotten prisons deep beneath the ground, goblets filled with tainted blood.  _I shouldn't have taken her there. I shouldn't have let her come along. Spinning stories to slip by,_ _but now everything is crashing down. Cassandra's going to have my hide._

"Why?"

Varric looks up at him. "Hmm?"

Cole rephrases his inquiry, "Why is she going to skin you alive?"

His mind suddenly becomes quieter. Guarded. "Kid, you really shouldn't read  _all_  the thoughts. Some are private."

"Sorry. I'll try." Trying is all he can do; he can never block the shouts.

"It's not your fault. Never mind." Varric sighs. "I've messed up and it's catching up."

Then he walks towards Trevelyan, shoulders a little slumped, head a little bowed.  _Cassandra's going to have my hide._

* * *

Vivienne isn't happy. Solas isn't happy, either. Cassandra is a bit lost.

"This thing is not a stray puppy you can make into a pet."

Rosaline wants to have a fennec – a brown one with many dots. Like the one she had back at Haven, the one that kept her company when mother was away gathering herbs, father was patrolling with the other guards at the forward barricade. She's lonely, but she doesn't cry. Her tears have long gone dry. Chantry sister comforts her, says her parents will arrive. For the twentieth time in the past week. The girl knows it's a lie, but she doesn't mind. Not anymore. It's better than hearing 'they're dead now, but we're alive'.

Soft light dances at the edge of his periphery vision. Green, like the colour of the Mark. Blue, like lyrium drank to replenish mana, humming a song. White, like the sun, but not burning the eye.

Trevelyan's coming down the stairs, approaching Vivienne and Solas.

"What's wrong?"

"Cole is a  _demon,_ " the Enchanter replies.

Lilith knew he wasn't human, but she pretends otherwise. She keeps a neutral expression on her face. The tone of her voice is also impassive. She doesn't want to get hurt. Doesn't want to hurt the others.  _They've risked their lives joining the Inquisition. The least I can do is being respectful._ Respectful to what? Vivienne isn't wrong. Solas isn't, either. Same thing told by different words, sinking slowly to the bottom of an ocean of tangled truths, tinged with the hue of nightmares shaped like Harrowing, a Breach marring the sky.

He stands up and walks to the soldiers lying on the ground, made restless by pain and sorrow.  _Some_ _body_ _end this now._ Trevelyan's by his side now – watching, wondering, waiting. He helps soothe the aches he can, and tries to silence the others, but Lilith makes him stop. She tells him not kill the man. 'I don't know the future, and neither do you.' It makes him confused, makes him sad. Wrong. A strange thing that Blackwall feels every time he looks into a mirror, Varric feels every time he sees red lyrium, Solas feels almost all the time. A choking foreign feeling made more familiar with every passing day in this world.

He shouldn't have killed the mages at the Spire.

Suddenly, he's almost as loud as the others around. The pressure is too much and he lowers his head. She thinks it's because he can't save the soldier.

It is, and it is not.

He leaves the courtyard.

* * *

It's much calmer here. Quieter. He can't even see anyone from this part of the castle, excepts for the birds flying above, chirping merrily, circling Skyhold. There are nine - ten if you count Leliana's crow that just passed by. He doesn't understand why she's called a nightingale. Varric said she was once a bard. Perhaps that's why she's a bird, too – a small one with a powerful song. She always sings, even when her mouth is shut. Sad sonnets of doubt, of a rose bush blooming in the Blight, and a woman named Dorothea.

Someone's coming up the stairs. He already knows who they are; he can recognise that harmonious melody anywhere. Gentle and benign, like the music of a harp.

She reaches the top step, carrying a box in her arm. "Cole?"

He stops counting the birds and turns to greet Trevelyan. "Hello."

"I did't expect to run into you. Weren't you down at the infirmary?" Lilith places the crate next to the others near the window to his right.

"There was so much hurt. It is better in this part of the tower."

She's trying to keep herself occupied – opening the topmost box and searching for something inside – but her mind keeps drifting back to a conversation from not long ago. With Varric and someone called the Champion of Kirkwall, about an enemy that dies and comes back to life. Knowledge that sends chill down the spine.

"Well, you can stay here for now if you prefer." Her voice is kind, showing no sign of her inner turmoil. "When I'm done, we can search the building for another comfortable zone for you."

His eyebrows knit. "Why not here?"

She pauses and looks up. "This is my room."

"This... is your room," he repeats, tone a mix between inquiring and factual, eyes wandering over the thick layer of dust on the floor, the wooden bars scattered, and the cracked windows.

A pigeon nesting atop the owl statue coos.

"It's not going to remain like this forever," she states, more to reassure herself than Cole.

_It's not much, but after the trip through the Frostbacks, I do not really mind. Home used to be with family once. Now it's anywhere I can rest for the night. Maxwell chases me through the mansion, tries to catch the parchment in my hands – another letter from Olivia. I reach my room and shut the door. He can pound on it for all he wants. He calls me a sneaky little thief, and I chuckle in response. He started this himself. I put the the paper on my desk. I'll give it back to him soon enough. It's warm. Cheeks flushed. Shouldn't have run that much. Soft thick carpet under my feet as I approach the window and open it. Eyes close as wind brushes over my face. Blissful life. I hope it remains like this forever._

_Templars knock on the door the next night..._

Her thoughts become dismal. She shakes them away and continues to sift through her belongings.

"The curtains were beautiful," Cole begins. The silence was heavy and harsh. "Soft, long, cascading, moving in the breeze scented by gardenias. Like your hair when it was longer." He asks with innocent curiosity, "Why did you cut it?"

"Tending to long hair was difficult while on the run."

She doesn't miss it, though. She prefers it shoulder-length now.

"Speaking of being in danger." Lilith finds the tome she was searching for and opens it at the index page . "Try to avoid Madame Vivienne as much as possible. Especially when not in public."

Another crow flies toward Skyhold.

"She doesn't like me," Cole says, watching the black bird until it's no more visible.

"That's one way to put it."

"She's afraid."

Lilith stops reading to move her gaze up. He's staring right back at her.

"You are, too." Almost a whisper.

It's different, her fear. Less coloured like the Harrowing and more entangled with ifs and perhaps and the never-ending pressure of responsibility on her slender shoulders, pushing down. The possibility of failing, of him changing into a demon. A life lost, taking the lives of others.

"If I change, you'll have to kill me."

It's supposed to reassure her, right, reasoned, but all it does is worsen the pain, make her rueful.  _C_ _overing one mistake with another._

He's about to make her forget their conversation and try again, but she speaks and her words stop him. "Erasing isn't always the best solution, Cole. The sooner you learn that, the less you get hurt."

It is just an advice, one shaped by melancholy; she doesn't know of what he wanted to do. She's tired, of all the killing, of all the deaths. Of running away and glancing over her shoulder with terror, because someone, somewhere blew up a chantry to send a message. She wonders what would have happened if the Circles hadn't rebelled.  _Maybe I would have become tranquilled, living the rest of my life as a drone, in service to the Templars – the very thing the Trevelyans were sworn to do. Serving all the time. Wouldn't that have been ironic? At least then, nothing would have mattered._

He makes her forget. Everything. Except for the carefree comment about cascading curtains swaying in the wind, like her hair moving in the breeze. He doesn't ask why her locks are short now and not reaching her waist; he already knows. She mentions that anyway, wrapping her head with a white scarf before dusting the surface of a nearby alcove. And he smiles at the remark. Forced, fragile and fake. He feels like Blackwall staring into a mirror again, Varric thinking of red lyrium. He shouldn't have made her forget. Covering one mistake with another. He wants to make her remember, but that is not within his powers. Why is he feeling like this? He makes people forget all the time and it never stings. Does he betray their trust, too, when what he wants to do is help?

It starts to ache and get loud, from the inside and not out. Like back at the courtyard.

So he makes himself forget. Everything. Except for the satin curtain of her bedroom window swaying gently in the midsummer sunlight. Except for the fact that he made himself forget... something. There are many of these 'something's sitting shyly at the back of his mind, reminding, that he's done many mistakes in the past. Mistakes he wasn't ready to make. Crushing, cracking, clawing at him. Like what he did at the Spire.

That is  _one thing_  he won't ever make himself forget.

He doesn't want to become a demon again.

"Cole?" she asks hesitantly, when he stares for too long at a single spot on the floor, silent.

"Yes?" A tentative smile – a genuine one. He's feeling better now without that 'something' pressing down on his mind, whatever it was.

"Just making sure you haven't dozed off." She doesn't sound very sure actually, but doesn't prod.

* * *

They want to make the second floor of the rotunda a library. It is strange, Cole decides. Aren't libraries supposed to be quiet? The crows here are too loud. He tells that to Dorian and the mage replies, his voice deliberately rising a few octaves, that it was perfect here until  _someone_ elected setting up a rookery on the upmost level was a good idea.

Everyone's thinking of Leliana. Even Leliana herself.

A maid arrives to inform that dinner is ready. People leave, except for Dorian and Solas; they aren't hungry.

Sitting on the railing with hands resting upon it, legs dangling above the ground, Cole watches Solas as he works on a fresco. It is going to depict the explosion, the one that caused the Breach. The very beginning of the journey which brought them all together. Varric calls it 'bittersweet'. Too little sweetness for the so-much-bitterness to vanish, leaving a taste in your mouth that makes you wish you never ate. He never eats. But the flavour of sadness, sorrow and seething emotions are too strong to go unnoticed.

Dorian is trying to sort the books alphabetically. Cole offered to help, but the mage said he'd rather do it alone, said he is a perfectionist. It is going to take him a while; most of the shelves are still empty. Soft thuds as he taps his finger against the cover of a tome, musing.  _Where should it go?_

"Dorian, is it wrong to compare hair to curtains?" Cole asks with genuine curiosity.

"Wrong? Are we talking syntactically?" the Tevinter questions, scanning the words written on the spine of books methodically placed on a shelf. "Whose poorly-written novel have you been reading? Varric's?"

He squeezes the tome between two others on an alcove before picking up another book from the pile on the floor. "Depends on the type of curtain. The dirty drabs hanging from the ceiling in the main hall, for instance, are an absolute horror to behold and downright insulting to be compared to."

"Long, soft, pale cerulean satin curtains, hand-embroidered by an elven maid in a summer afternoon?"

"With valance or without valance?"

Solas sighs. "Cole. We don't usually compare people's hair to curtains in such manner."

Cole smiles at the elf. "Thank you."

"And here I was about to mention that midnight blue would be a better colour for blocking sunlight," says Dorian.

Why would people want to avoid something as beautiful as the sun? The sun doesn't want to avoid them. It shines on everyone, even those who hate it. It's a good thing that it does; in the absence of light, shadows thrive. Like those dark, dank, desperate places under the ground, where the dead walk, living on the blight.

"Tell me..." It's Dorian again, a knowing lilt to his voice. "Has anyone caught your eyes?"

He's watching Solas paint right now, so: "Solas."

Dorian bursts into laughter.

Solas moves his gaze to the second floor, a shade annoyed, a little bit amused, but just a bit. "Cole, that figure of speech doesn't mean what you think in that context." He resumes his work. "And please cease the hysterics, Dorian, before you injure yourself."

The Tevinter catches his breath, clearing a tear from the corner of his eyes before leaning over the railing. "I don't know what's more hilarious: that it is you, or the fact that you are bald."

The elf ignores him in favour of concentrating on the fresco, and Dorian straightens and goes back to sorting the books. Cole remains silent.

He still doesn't understand what was so funny about him watching Solas paint the destruction of the Conclave. Screaming, scared, and a second later, dead. Spirits yanked through the Fade futilely attempting to fathom, grasping for sanity. Failing. He can already see it – the full image – along with all its pains and miseries.

The wall is crying. The colours bleed.

* * *

It's easier to move around Skyhold late at night, quiet, quick and unseen. It's easier to help when no-one's looking, when he doesn't have to make people forget about him constantly.

Apple for Rosaline, peppermint for the cat playing by the tree. He grabs the bag of turnips from the ground before searching the cabinets. Where did she hide the cookies? Soft, round, a little moist, a touch of saffron to the crust. He finds them in a bowl. Not exactly the type he wants, but they will have to do. He takes three before leaving the kitchen. Sound of gravel under his feet as he walks toward the courtyard.  _Too much agony, like needles under my skin. Cannot stand it anymore. When is it going_ _to_ _end?_  Soon.

He tosses the bag of turnips into the nearest hearth and watches it burn to ash, cinders shaping motherly smiles, soft kisses on the forehead, and stews cooked with a lot of love. Cole turns away from the fireplace and heads for Josephine's office. Two flights of stairs, one of the steps cracked. Can it be dangerous? He doesn't know. Cassandra's sitting behind a table, reading Varric's book for the second time. Some parts of it Cole understands, others he really does not.

Josephine is not in her office when he arrives. She'll be back.  _So much paperwork to do. Pilgrims visiting Skyhold. We don't have enough room for our own! Cullen's not going to like it._ _He's been tense ever since Haven. We all have. Wish I could go back to Antiva. Maybe for a week when this is done,_ _when we can sleep without the threat of Corypheus looming over us._

Cole places the plate of cookies on her table. The ones their family cook makes have sesame seeds. These ones don't. Perhaps she won't mind.

He's about to leave, but stops, gaze falling on the parchment lying atop the desk. A long list of things to be purchased for Skyhold.

 _Glass replacement for the windows, more shelves for the library, table for the dining_   _room_ _, carpets for the_   _main hall,_ _supplies for the apothecary..._

He picks the quill still wet with ink and adds something to the end of the note, in cursive penmanship similar to Josephine's – same in appearance, but bearing a different feel:

 _Pale_   _lapis_   _satin_ _curtains_   _with floral embroidery_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After finishing this chapter, I now completely agree with Patrick Weekes that Cole's case is poignant. I remember the first time Cole explained the 'healing process' – making people forget and then making himself forget to 'wash clean' and ease the pain: an absolutely sad thing to go through, and he was _happy_. I just wanted to shake him and have him snap out of it. 
> 
> So yes, ignorance is bliss. But a damaging one.
> 
> Also, I like to think that his inner struggle didn't start at Adamant; it was just the last straw. 
> 
> Next chapter won't be focused on drapery. ;)
> 
> Many thanks to all those who commented and left kudos. :)


	5. Cloaks and Daggers

She found the Vault while wandering through the halls of Skyhold, on a night when peaceful asleep proved impossible. Back then, the place was only aged stone walls, cobwebs, and a thick layer of dust. Now it's a chamber carpeted and adorned with paintings illuminated by the warm torchlight. She doesn't understand why Josephine went to the trouble of decorating here; no-one except Lilith visits this hall. No-one except her and the mysterious person hiding daggers in the barrel near the cellar.

She kills most of the torches and sticks to the shadows even though it isn't exactly necessary. Then she waits, and watches.

It has been about half an hour already and she is tempted to tap her feet, but she resists that urge. She doesn't want to give herself away. Perhaps she should let Leliana handle this, but there are more important matters for the Spymaster to focus on, like the assassination of Empress Celene.

She's about to leave and station a guard when she senses it – subtle movement in the Veil, like a very gentle breeze, or the current of water passing over her gloved hand as she dips it into a river. Almost too faint to be perceivable, but the Mark has its benefits.

"Soft strokes on the aura surrounding me, like the tip of a paintbrush skimming, hair falling on my shoulders, touching barely. Changes in the mana circulating within. Happens every time he cloaks himself, a shroud, feeling otherworldly. Of the Fade. Magical, even though he says he can't cast any magic. Is it dormant or does he know and is simply trying to ignore it? He certainly knows  _I_  am here."

Lilith lights the nearest torch, coming out of stealth. Cole, too, is now visible.

"Should've known it was you," she says equably, placing the pouch in her hand on the alcove to the right. "The way Varric advertised this stealth dust, I thought I'd remain undetectable forever." Apparently, his exaggerating habit is slithering its way out of his stories and into his everyday life.

"So bright. Like looking into a mirror facing the sun, trying to discern its beautiful reflection, but failing, always. You can never hide."

She folds her arms, leans against the wall. "Hiding has many aspects. You don't always need to be invisible."

This seems to interest him, and confuse him at the same time.

"Are you hiding?" He tilts his head to the side, and the motion shifts the blond strands obscuring his pale blue eyes. A rare sight. She's almost got used to seeing his hair and imagining what lies behind.

He's still waiting for a reply, so she gives him one. The truth. "I am."

"Why?"

The same reason he cloaks himself on the battlefield, or when he steals food from the kitchen. Same reason he's wearing a hat with a very large brim, casting shadows over his face. Why his hair is always cascading in front of his eyes, concealing the emotions they show from the others.

"No one wants to be hurt by being transparent," Lilith replies at length. "I'm curious what would make a spirit so guarded."

It's dimly illuminated where he's standing, but she still manages to see his throat move – he just swallowed. He's nervous. Or maybe it's a tragic memory, making him feel like he's choking. She waits for a response, but then he moves to the barrel, opens it and puts two more daggers inside. She doesn't pry. Everyone has secrets and he can keep his as long as they don't interfere with the Inquisition.

"Could you please return them to the armoury afterwards? Cullen's been complaining." Lilith straightens and goes for the stairs, lighting the torches on her way.

She's under the archway, her foot on the first step when he speaks, so quietly she almost fails to hear him.

"I killed the mages at the Spire."

His words resonate in her ears, bringing forth reminiscence of hushed whispers among the elite of the Circle. Stories of people found with their throats cut open.

It takes effort to turn, but she does. He is still next to the barrel, his back to her, head bowed.

"Pain. Panic. Clunk of heavy boots as the Templars approach, dragging another one to the dungeons, bloody, broken and bruised. Screams echo from down the corridor. Who is it tonight? I don't know. I want to help. I want to help them escape the prison." His right hand forms a fist, as if holding a dagger. "I want to help me. Cannot drift away..."

He is tense, rigid, like a wooden bar with too much weight laid upon it, about to snap. So she keeps her tone low when she inquires – half to draw him out of the memory, half because she has to know, "Why are you here, Cole?"

His hand opens, the stiffness in his posture fading. When he lifts his head to look at her, he is no longer tense. Just conflicted.

"I want to help."

It is unnerving. Because the last time he used that very phrase, he was talking about the victims of his murders, killed by good intention. And a desire to be. Is he  _just_ Compassion? He certainly wants other things out of this life than being compassionate. At some point in time, that alone stopped to be 'enough', and 'more' rooted its way into his nature.

Exhaling, she breaks eye contact with him to regard the shadows on the wall, flickering in the torchlight. Vivienne's face is fresh in her mind, chastising her in the courtyard for accepting someone like him into the Inquisition, without knowing anything of his background.

"Do you want me to leave?" His voice, unsure.

Of course he is reading her thoughts. And of course he would suggest such a thing – escape, avoid. Forget. His mantra titled the 'helping process'.

Sending him away is not an option. He won't survive alone in this world and he has nowhere else to go, not even the Fade. Maybe that is a good thing. If he had returned, he could be among those spirits yanked through the Breach and driven to insanity. And then she would have killed him, uncaring, cleaving a path to self-preservation, never knowing that he was someone who would steal peppermint for cats and cookies for Josephine.

Dorian found a wooden duck on his bed the other night.

"Don't tell the others about what happened at the Spire," is her parting words before leaving the Vault. She needs some distance to ingest what was just exchanged between them before making a decision.

* * *

Her walk in the garden is soon interrupted, by one of Cullen's men informing her that the other advisers will gather shortly at the war room. For a meeting she almost forgot about.

As Lilith enters the chamber, Leliana hands her a report on the red lyrium deposit they found back in the Frostbacks: the shipment was meant to be sent to Emprise du Lion, the town of Sahrnia, where the river has frozen solid. Is it the red lyrium causing this or another kind of magic is at work?

Josephine goes on about how much Orlais has fallen into chaos, Cullen tells her  _not_  to approach Emprise du Lion because it will be a suicidal run, and there are still no signs of the missing Wardens, Lelianna confirms. And as Lilith regards the map laid on the table, her head start to ache. Everything is a mess, and the mess has to be spread in a way to make it impossible for her to address it swiftly, at once.

Hawke's contact in Crestwood. Red Templars in Sahrnia. Armies tearing the Exalted Plains apart – a place which is already beyond hope, a graveyard. Venatori in the Hissing Wastes, digging up dwarven ruins... And in the midst of all this, a distant relative decides it is time to use 'the Herald' as a ladder to climb up.

"What do you want to do?" Cullen asks the dreaded question.  _Whom does she wish to sacrifice?_

After a pregnant pause, Lilith says she wants to visit Crestwood first. It sounds better than 'I want to leave the others to their fate for now.' Some nagging feeling tells her the mystery with the Wardens is a lot more grand than they believe. A lot more grim.

When the meeting is over, she heads to the stables, taking the long route of going through the kitchen to avoid the nobles hanging around the main hall. Her stallion perks up as she approaches, and Lilith lets it out of the stall, running a hand through its charcoal mane, before picking up the curry comb. Dennet isn't in the area, otherwise he wouldn't have allowed the Inquisitor to groom a horse.

"You look moody," she hears Blackwall comment, and replies with a simple affirmative before she begins combing the light grey coat.

He asks whether they will leave for Crestwood soon; he wants to know what's happened to the other Wardens, probably more than anyone else in their group. She tells him there's a nasty blizzard passing over the northern road and that they'll depart in a few days, once the weather becomes more tolerable. He remains mostly quiet while Lilith switches to another brush and continues to comb, perhaps waiting for her to question him more about the Grey Warden like usual, but she does not.

A gentle touch to the right front leg, and the horse lifts it, understanding that she wants to check the hoof. It is clean.

"You don't need to bother. Dennet pampers your horse," remarks Blackwall.

"I'll tell him to pay more attention to yours as well." She lays the pick back next to the other grooming equipment.

"I'm just saying: you don't have to feed a horse three carrots a day just to make it feel special."

She's saddling up the Orlesian Courser when Cassandra arrives.

"Where are you going?" the Seeker asks.

"Cullen wants someone to inspect the bridge reconstruction," Lilith answers, fastening the buckles.

"He meant one of the lieutenants. Not you."

"The horse's getting restless." It is an excuse, but a good one. The stallion has been mostly tied to a stand since the fall of Haven, though she doubted reminding Cassandra of that particular event would help the matter.

"Well, don't go out alone. I told Cullen I'll be training the recruits, otherwise-"

"It's just down the road, Cassandra. A heavily guarded road." She mounts the horse and urges it into a trot before the other woman can object again.

It is colder outside the magical boundary of Skyhold, a light snow falling, and the wind brushes the soft flakes over her face as she paces the horse into a canter. No more evergreen trees or fertile ground. Just an enshrouding blanket of white and the imposing view of the mountains as far as eye can see. The scenery seemed majestic when they had arrived, but after the first few days, its effect wore off and all that remained was the suffocating feeling of being constricted and confined, walled off from the rest of the world.

After a ten-minute ride, she reaches the bridge reconstruction site. It is currently more wooden scaffolding than stone, but Lilith can already tell the structure will be finished in less than a month, judging by how vigorous the workers are building right now. They notice her, and some pause their activity to stare at her in reverence, others content with occasional glances in her direction.

A man, whom Lilith assumes is overseeing the operation, approaches and bows. "My Lady. We didn't expect you to arrive."

"Please be at ease. I'm just here to inspect the reconstruction." She dismounts from her horse, which a soldier promptly guides to a stand after asking her permission.

The overseer – Ser Martin, he introduces himself – hands her a parchment filled with notes made on their progress thus far and proceeds to give her a tour of the area. As she passes by the workers, their respective 'Your Worship' or 'Inquisitor' reaches her ears, and she politely smiles in return, because that is what they expect her to do and it is right. They probably don't ask for much wage for all this hard work. Just satisfied with serving the Maker and His Herald. Are they the survivors of Haven or the new pilgrims? Cullen probably knows most of them by name. He cares immensely for all under his command. Sometimes, she thinks it is too much for him, who is struggling with lyrium withdrawal.

When the tour is finished, Ser Martin asks if she would prefer to have a tent set up for her, but Lilith declines, saying she prefers to stay out and enjoy the fresh mountain air. To clear her head. She doesn't utter the last part aloud. He excuses himself and leaves her side, and she begins to wander back to where her horse is tied but stops, gaze falling on the advancing figures of Varric and Blackwall.

"Our horses were getting restless, too," the latter says with an indifferent shrug.

Lilith folds her arms. "Cassandra sent you, didn't she."

It isn't a question.

"Did you expect us to  _disobey_?" The dwarf remarks, "I've had my fair share of punches from her already, thank you very much."

Only he can make jokes of the Seeker's furious reaction at discovering his lies about Hawke. Lilith herself wasn't pleased with what he had done. It took a great deal of self control not to openly side with Cassandra. Why didn't he tell her anything about Corypheus all this time they were stranded in the Frostbacks? Why not back in Haven, when she was putting herself at risk, activating a trebuchet to kill a monster that cannot be killed? She clamps down on the undesirable thoughts. There is already a lot on her mind.

Her silence is getting noticeable so she covers it with sarcasm of her own. "I'm amazed you two are talking with each other now."

"If you call," His eyes almost bulge out in a dramatic glare as he continues in a mock Nevarran accent, "'Go after her, Varric!'  _talk,_  then yes," he adds the last part in his usual cool composure. "Her options were limited. Did you expect her to send  _Madame de Fer_ on an errand?"

"Where was Dorian?"

"Library. Indexing the books."

"Still?" She says dryly, "With that speed, it is going to take him a century."

Blackwall leaves them to check on the bridge, a soldier eager about the Wardens joining him along the way. It is only then that Lilith shifts her attention from the newcomers to their surrounding, and spots three horses standing besides her own, instead of two – a buckskin one lingering by the Ferelden Forders which Blackwall and Varric rode to here.

"Who else is with you?"

"You?" the dwarf intones.

Her eyebrows draw together in a slight frown. "Varric."

"Alright." He decides to come clean, "Kid said he messed up earlier and wants to apologise. Something about nicking daggers and dumping turnips into the fireplace."

He obviously didn't tell Varric the whole story. The  _actual_  story.

She checks the snow on the ground around them. No footprints. Cole isn't here.

When she lifts her head, Varric is looking at her questioning, waiting for a better explanation on what the Spirit has done.

"It was nothing. Just a misunderstanding." Of magnitude as big as the White Spire. Lilith internally winces at her own cover-up.

After telling Varric that she wants to go for a walk, she moves away from the reconstruction site and toward the relative solitude by the cliff. Soon, the pounding noise of hammers becomes muted – something in the background to reassure her that she isn't lost in the mountain, like the last time she was wandering in the Frostbacks, at night in a blizzard, after the siege of Haven.

"How do you mask your footfalls?" she asks, watching the horizon.

A few seconds pass before Cole comes out of stealth, standing three paces away from her to the right. When he speaks, he is hesitant. "How did you notice I was here?"

"I asked the first question," Lilith placidly says.

He replies, still tentative, "I make you forget the sound."

"The Veil shifts around you, ever so slightly," is her reply to his inquiry.

Snow crunches under her boot as she deliberately puts more pressure on it, slowly, testing the texture, the sound. Everything feels tangible, real. How is it possible to conceal such a thing? How can she lose a part of her experiences so easily, without even realising? Any other circumstance, and she would have considered his skills astonishing. Now it simply feels uncanny, unwanted and disturbing.

"Don't do it again." Lilith turns to him. "Making me forget."

Something akin to guilt colours his expression. He tries to hide it, but fails.

"Have you done it before?" she ventures.

He shifts from one foot to the other, his hand playing unthinkingly with a tiny piece of loose thread attached to his glove. She isn't referring to footsteps and he knows it. "Yes."

Why isn't she surprised. It doesn't make hearing this aloud any easier, however. "What was it?"

A long pause.

"I don't remember all of them."

Them.

Lilith exhales. She doesn't dare ask him why  _he_  cannot remember. "Is that why you're here now? To make me forget your admission?"

He stops playing with the loose thread. "You are hurt."

"I'm perfectly fine, Cole."

"Your trust is not."

She probably should be more disappointed at him, but now she just feels numb.

The snow falls faster and heavier around them.

"I expected you to tell me sooner that you were the Ghost of the White Spire."

Maybe when they were picking lotus in the Fallow Mire, or while she was cleaning his ring for him. Certainly not today, down in the Vault, where she went to find hidden daggers – the ones missing in Skyhold, not those stained with blood of innocent and vicious alike, wielded by a phantom prowling the dungeons in the dead of night.

"You know of what happened at the Spire," he concludes, almost unsurprised. It is really difficult to surprise someone who can read your mind.

"I was a mage hunted down by the Templars; I had to know everything, even the rumours, especially those stemmed from their main stronghold."

She obviously didn't know everything. If she did, today would not have happened.

"I'm sorry," utters Cole, slowly, as if the words feel strange in his mouth, like they have rarely been used before. He has little reason to say them aloud when all he has to do is erase his mistake and try again. And again, and again. Until everything is 'right'.

A gust of wind moves up the falling flakes, and for a moment, they swirl around him like a ghostly aura before dropping to the ground.

"Something tells me that your secrets pale in comparison to what others have buried," Lilith says pensively. "You must already know them."

"I shouldn't tell." He doesn't deny being aware.

"No, you shouldn't. And I'm not sure if I'm ready to hear them now."

He starts making shapes on the snow with the sole of his boot, carefully. It is difficult to tell what it is from this angle.

"What's this about throwing turnips into the fireplace?" she asks.

He doesn't pause his activity. "The soldier in the courtyard."

The man died several days ago, after enduring hours of agony, she heard the servants whisper.

"You have a strange way of helping people," Lilith says lowly, mostly to herself.

"Is it bad?"

"It's roundabout," she murmurs, then goes back to regarding the scenery.

The crunching sound of snow is the only indication that Cole is still here, drawing. Last she glanced, it seemed like a water lily. When the noise becomes quiet, she checks to find him watching something in the field. Frowning slightly, she follows his gaze to see a fennec scurry in the plain.

"Cole?"

"Can I burrow your bag?"

She can already tell where he is going with that request. "Can whoever wants a pet wait for a week or two? I'll order one from town. A tamed one."

"I think..." he replies, a bit unsure. "She's very lonely, though."

The fennec leaves their line of vision.

"Who is she?" Lilith asks.

"Rosaline." He elaborates, "The little girl who lost her family."

There are many of them, orphaned by the siege of Haven. Mother Giselle is doing what she can, but it has been hard, for her as well as the children. Josephine ruefully suggested to send them to an orphanage. Lilith hasn't been able to make up her mind about that yet.

"I'll tell Dennet to let her play with the horses under supervision. They can be lovely companions."

Animals are not going to fill the empty space left by the death of her family, but the distraction might make it easier for her to cope with reality.

The suggestion appears to satisfy Cole, his lips forming a half-smile as he says, "She likes the brown one with white stockings." And then, a little more confused: "She gave it the apple I had given to her."

It is ironic, that someone like him who makes many sacrifices to please others has difficulty understanding the concept of relinquishing for the sake of another. How exactly does he perceive this world? As a sequence of chores to be done just because, or can he experience life like any human would?

Her thoughts are interrupted when a crossbow bolt lands a metre away, in front of her feet, a message attached to it:

_Cassandra's here, and – surprise, surprise – she's angry that I've let you out of my sight. I said you're answering nature's call. Get back here when possible._

_\- V_

Of all the things he could come up with, it had to be that _._ Out here, in the middle of this thick snow.

Lilith folds the parchment and puts it in her satchel, walking back to the bridge, Cole tagging her close behind. It doesn't take long for her to find Varric and Cassandra; all she has to do is follow the Seeker's voice, arguing with the dwarf.

"Calm down. She isn't a child," he says, nonchalant.

"She's a capable woman – true – but we have enemies who may strike at any time. And please stop lying to me-"

Lilith interjects, "I go to answer nature's call for a minute and you two are at each other's throats again."

Cassandra turns to her. Why is she giving her that disconcerted look?

"You're with Cole?"

Right. She should have been alone.

Lilith has to stop herself from closing her eyes and breathing out in frustration.

"He was trying to catch a fennec." And before Cassandra can open her mouth: "Our paths crossed."

That seems to convince the Seeker, because she drops the matter and says she came to give Cullen's new orders to the sergeant here, and that the group can depart afterwards.

When the Nevarran woman is out of earshot, the dwarf doesn't waste a beat to remark, "Smooth, Trevelyan."

" _Don't_ , Varric." She really isn't in the best of moods for his jokes.

He raises his hands in mock surrender. "As you wish, Your Inquisitorialness."

Lilith swears Blackwall's fit of coughs is a badly concealed snicker, but before she can say anything, Cole wonders aloud, "I didn't know you could hear nature sing."

Every gaze moves to him.

Blackwall is the first to break the silence. "Now that's just creepy."

* * *

Josephine scheduled a small feast for the inner circle that night, in celebration for making Skyhold 'presentable'. Lilith tried to decline the offer with the excuse of a headache, but the Antivan woman said it is simply a dinner with more dishes than usual. Not attending would have drawn too much attention to her, considering that everyone agreed to come. Everyone except Cole, but he never eats.

She sits at the head of the table, because apparently, she's entitled to. Even in an informal gathering like this she has to act formal. She doesn't have to  _talk_ , so she quietly cuts the piece of meat in her plate while listening to Dorian update them on his progress in the library – 'just' three hundred more books to be indexed. She learns that Blackwall's favourite fruit is plum from his polite comment to Josephine as she hands him a slice of the dessert, which is curiously enough a plum cake. Those two are setting themselves up for a heartbreak, Lilith muses while sipping her orange juice. Leliana is probably thinking the same thing, because if a Trevelyan knows the Montilyets are arranging for an engagement between the ambassador and Lord Otranto, then the Spymaster is definitely aware.

Varric tries to get everyone, except Vivienne of course, to play a game of Wicked Grace with him after dinner. Dorian says he is busy with the library. Blackwall is too tired. And Cullen has a headache – a genuine one. The game is postponed for a later date.

When the meal is finished, Lilith excuses herself and goes to her quarters. The air feels chilly tonight, so she closes all the windows and increases the fire of the hearth before changing to more comfortable clothes. There are a stack of boxes atop her desk, which she already knows are the books and equipment she purchased from Redcliffe. The medium silver crate decorated with filigree laid on the floor, however, she doesn't recognise.

Curious, Lilith approaches the crate and tests its weight. It's light compared to its size, and as she picks the container up to put it on her bed for closer inspection, she reads the label:  _'_ _Madame Maxim's Marvels_ _'_

Her brow furrows. She doesn't recall ordering anything from Orlais.

Lifting the lead and then the protective covering, her gaze falls on the content inside, instantly realising who the culprit is.

"Cole..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The issue of the White Spire was a can of worms, but a can of worms that had to be opened. 
> 
> Thank you all who commented and kudos'd. <3


	6. Laced

"Someone told Jospehine to order hand-embroidered curtains for my quarters."

He lays the last plum slice by the window in the apothecary before looking at Trevelyan, standing some feet away, arms crossed, platinum hair gleaming in the morning sunlight like a halo – a faint one that nobody can see, except for him. She doesn't sound angry. Doesn't feel angry, either.

"I'm not even going to ask who."

"I didn't."

Her eyebrows rise in a polite expression of disbelief. He isn't lying.

"I didn't tell her. I added it to her list without her noticing."

"Cole..." She briefly closes her eyes. A short quiet chuckle escapes her lips before she can strangle it in her mouth. "That's actually worse."

He's never seen her laugh before, not outside her memories. She rarely does ever since the Rebellion. The curtains made her smile, though.

Her gaze wanders over the peeled plums. "Do you know the cook has placed a bounty on your head?"

He takes out another fruit from his pocket to cut. "Yes. His thoughts are loud and angry."

"I can't imagine why," Lilith says dryly. "Could you please limit your thefts to things which are absolutely necessary? Josephine will survive without her daily treat of sweets."

"Wind warm when I reach the garden. Mother waves at me, tells me to join them for breakfast under the willow tree. They are proud of me. Soft smile on my lips as I greet Yvette lingering by the fountain, drawing. Maid murmurs 'My Lady' as she passes by me, carrying a plate of cookies. They smell delicious. Are they the usual with sesame seeds?" Cole stops reciting the past. "She's happier when she eats them."

"She won't be when she sees the supply request handed to her by the chef," Trevelyan says, then sits on a nearby chair. Her eyes take in the sight of the bottles of herbal concoctions placed on an alcove, before focusing on the flames burning in the fireplace ahead, thoughts distant and near.

"Melted sugar attracts flies just as well. You could give the plums to Blackwall."

Why didn't he think of that?

He picks up a fruit slice from the window sill. It is mushy, there's dust sticking to its surface, and no matter how much he tries, he won't be able to make it forget into becoming whole again.

Nothing is ever whole when he makes them forget.

He puts the plum back on the sill and goes to the water basin to wash his hands. He can't make them forget into cleanness, either. He can never make himself clean by forgetting, no matter how much he wants to believe. The cause sticks while he remains oblivious to it.

His eyes focus on the languid movement of the water in the bowl, thoughts distant and near.

"Are you done?" Her voice, kind, careful, bringing him back to reality.

"Yes?"

She stands up and goes for the door. "Come with me."

* * *

"Why should I wear this?"

Trevelyan doesn't answer straight away, holding the white silk shirt close to his chest, just under his neck, to see if it fits. Is it Dorian's or Cullen's? They're newly washed so he can't easily tell.

"Duke Antoine of Wycome will be visiting Skyhold tonight."

She decides that the shirt is a bit large and walks back to her bed to choose another one from the assortment methodically lying atop it.

"As much as Josephine assures me it is simply a matter of diplomatic relations and in good faith..." She uses the white garment in her hand as a measuring unit to avoid picking another one of the same size. "My family has had dealings with him in the past." She finds a midnight blue shirt suitable for Cole. "I know him not to be a man who would endure the hardship of such a long and perilous trip from Wycome to the Frostbacks, just for a dinner."

She comes back to stand in front of him and hold the clothes against his chest, to see if the size is correct. It seems to be a perfect fit.

Lilith hands him the garment. "Try it, please."

He stares at the item. So many buttons, holes, loops and laces crisscrossing. Like Varric's clothing but without all the embellishments. Why did they have to make it so complicated?

Seeing his hesitation, Lilith takes it back. "I'll help you."

She removes his hat and places it on the nearby sofa before gently pulling his leather shirt over his head. It, too, joins the hat on the furniture. Holding the garment for Cole, she instructs him to begin with sliding his arms into the sleeves. He does, then turns around to face her again so she can fasten the hidden buttons on the front. He tries to count her hair strands but there are so many, the same colour – he can't tell them apart. He watches her hands instead, guiding the buttons into the holes, one by one. There is a small gash on her index finger. Is it a paper cut? She reads a lot. Looking around the room, he finds a box on her desk, the tip of its lid humming a tune, the same as her blood. No, not a paper cut.

When she starts tying the black laces running down the side of the clothes into elegant knots, he shifts his attention back to her hands. It feels like the Fallow Mire, but different. He cannot tell why. Maybe it is the lack of mud.

"Laces like you. They never listen to me," Cole wonders aloud.

She doesn't pause her activity, but her lips form a faint smile. "They're not very good listeners."

He agrees. "They are slippery. Like pearls falling from a string. Never content with being tied."

"Nobody is."  _That is why you are out of the Fade, is it not._

He wants to tell her 'no', but she sounds so sure, her certainty planting a seed of doubt. Why can't he return to where he once came from? He's here to help, his mind supplements. He stares at her fingers as they fasten another knot. She's the one helping him here now.

When the ties are finished, she straightens the collar, the little creases on the sleeves, before resting her palms on his upper arms, regarding him, pensive.

"Are you comfortable with this?"

He smiles. "It is soft."

"I meant with spying on people in my behalf."

She wants him to read their thoughts, and lie if the need arises. The first one he does all the time, the second, he'd rather not. He did lie to Varric yesterday, about why he had to apologise. It felt strange, wrong. He didn't want to hurt his trust, but the truth would have hurt even worse. Like what it did to Trevelyan. He expected her to react as Rhys did, but she stayed where he vanished. She always stayed when others did not. Like back in Haven, buried by a blanket of snow forever.

"I want to help," Cole replies, determined.

"Just remember not to recite thoughts." Her tone is soft, soothing, laced with something alike motherly reverence, but not. She reminds him of Varric a bit – only a bit – wanting to see him grow, out of the constricting confining shell. Similar to when people wanted her to become the Inquisitor. But it is not a demand. Just a wish.

She reaches up a hand and gently rakes it through his hair, pushing them aside, away from his eyes.

"Better now." A whisper.

_Stop hiding behind your strands._

His gaze meets hers for the first time since arriving at her quarters. He never noticed there are blue speckles in the grey of her eyes, how long her lashes are. The powerful aura of mana surrounding her radiates, brilliantly bright against the dark background of this twisted world.

Trevelyan leaves his side to collect the clothes strewn upon the bed, a little sombre now. He doesn't understand why.

"The trousers are on the back of the chair. Make sure to grab them before your departure," she says, neatly folding a shirt. "I doubt you'll run into trouble for wearing them, but if you do, just ask Varric to help."

"You can't?"

"With that, I'm afraid not," is her calm response.

"The ties are that complicated?"

"The complications lie in another type of ties." She adds, "While you're at it, ask Varric to explain gender boundaries. And please tell him, I insisted he tones it down."

_He is innocent. Pure. Let him retain this one._

Cole moves to the chair to pick up the garment, hearing her say, "Be back here an hour before sunset, please, so we can review the plan." He asks if he should carry the clothes back to Cullen and Dorian, but she tells him that a servant will arrive to gather them in a while.

It is almost noon when he leaves her quarters. As he walks through the main hall and down the stairs to the courtyard, some people stare at him more than usual. Has he done something wrong?

Cole stops. He's forgot his hat in her room.

He almost turns on the spot to go back inside when he catches his reflection in a nearby window – the same image he recognises as 'Cole', and yet not. His hair dimly shines, streaks of light wherever she touched, lingering. He knows nobody can see them. Nobody but himself. The gleam begins to fade, receding rueful to allow the dull blond colour reappear. The hue is forgotten, but the sensation remains, barely, like the touch of a cool breeze passing over the skin, warmth of the weak sunlight in a winter morning.

He starts walking again. Not to her room. The hat can stay there for now.

His head doesn't miss it much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry. He'll soon get back his hat. :>


	7. Feast of the Fallen

Darkness has fallen by the time the guests arrive – a party of guards, servants, and nobles, at the head of them Duke Antoine. His handsome features have withered with age, the once-brown hair now grey. He has changed and so has she, in more ways than just appearance.

Hands clasped behind her back, Lilith regards the entourage from the top of the stairs as they stride into the main courtyard. A grand company for solving a diplomatic issue, which in her opinion, could easily be addressed in a letter. Her eyes move to Cole lingering at the bottom of the steps, observing the new visitors – never staring, just as she told him. She expects him to look in her direction at any moment and respond with a nod to her unspoken inquiry, or mouth the word 'danger', but such signals never come. It is a morsel of relief that he isn't sensing anything suspicious. The mask of polite friendliness is on her face before Antoine reaches her. A mask she could easily put aside while living in the Circle, unhindered by the obligations of being a Trevelyan.

The usual formalities are exchanged, during which Josephine does most of the talking, and when the greetings are finally over, it is still the ambassador who guides the nobles to the dining hall. Lilith is content with giving the guests the short civilised answers they love to hear, silently enduring their pitiful attempts of heaping praise at her feet. Flattery never works on her, though they do not have to know it. The soft smile never drops from her lips.

It is Antoine who starts the conversation when they are seated behind the table and she mostly listens, commenting when necessary, carefully keeping watch on Cole, opposite her, some seats away – not too far so she couldn't read his expression, not too near to draw immediate attention to himself. He seems to be alright, as calm as someone like him can appear to be in a hall full of people. He never fidgets, never plays with eating utensils, and definitely does not recite thoughts. If he is drawing invisible patterns with his finger under the table again, others cannot tell. It almost reminds her of a child trying to behave at a social event to gain the favour of a parent. But he isn't a child and she isn't his parent, no matter how much she's been mothering him recently.

Ten minutes later, Antoine directs his focus to Cole instead of her, just as expected. He probably would have done so from the very beginning, if it weren't impolite to not speak with the Inquisitor first, Madame Vivienne second. He might want to disguise it as the curiosity induced by the 'presence of such a young man among the inner circle of the Inquisition', but she already knows he's trying to discover why his spies failed to make any mention of Cole prior to this gathering. And she watches, as the Duke asks him one question after another, concealed in a friendly exchange, and as Cole feeds Antoine the lies she taught him this very afternoon. With the boyish lilt in his voice now deliberately kept at bay, it is rather easy to believe this persona. 'Cole', too, is a persona, but one that he uses all the time, familiar.

"Your accent is Ferelden. Denerim?"

"Highever."

The Duke takes a sip from his goblet. "I heard it was home to many a political turmoils."

A pause, but too small to create suspicion.

"All I know are the rumours. Family decided to relocate to Ostwick to evade the Blight when I was ten."

"Good for you, son. Ferelden was no fit place to live between Loghain's treachery and the darkspawn," states the elder man, then turns to Cullen. "No offense."

"It is alright." The Commander attempts to appear comfortable. "Those were dark days."

Antoine shifts the conversation back to his original focus of interest. "When did you say you met the Inquisitor?"

Lilith tenses. That one, they didn't practise.

Her eyes briefly lock with Cole's. As she's about to cut across the conversation to save him the trouble of making a slip, he answers, "During the Mage Uprising. It was a chance encounter which worked for the both of us."

It is only by relying on her years of experience in courtly etiquette that she manages to hide her utter surprise.  _He_ never uses such long sophisticated sentences. She discreetly looks at where the spirit glanced before responding: Josephine is conversing with Lord Dominique, whom Lilith indeed met during the Rebellion.

She directs her gaze back to Cole. She doesn't know whether to feel proud of him or perturbed.

The servants start bringing in the dinner. Before Antoine can continue his barrage of questions, one of Leliana's scouts arrives to inform Cole that he is needed elsewhere. Just as planned.

Vivienne is the first to speak, drawing the Marcher's attention away from the spirit's sudden departure. She wasn't thrilled to discover that 'a demon' would be joining them, but apparently, all is fair when it comes to winning the Game, Lilith muses, taking note to never underestimate the Enchanter's ambition.

"I hear Wycome is flourshing perfectly under your leadership, Duke Antoine," says Vivienne. "It is probably one of the few places which has remained unphased, when states have crumbled under the mage-Templar tension. The news of your success has reached even Val Rayeaux."

"I would like to accept that as a compliment,  _Madame de fer_ , but unfortunately, that translates into 'assassination target' in Orlesian politic."

"I wouldn't worry, My Duke. Orlais is currently in  _such_  disarray that the nobility would rather not extend the courtesy of the Grand Game to the neighbouring nations."

He smiles very faintly, indifferent to the maid serving his food. "Ah, but those situations present the best opportunities for playing, does it not."

"In that case, Prince Vael of Starkhaven should be more concerned."

"I believe that city would have fared better if dear Sebastian aimed for restoration, instead of reformation at this day and age. Have you met him, Lady Trevelyan?" he calmly asks before taking a bite of his appetiser.

"No. He was residing in Kirkwall for the better part of the last ten years," is her equally placid reply. And then she remains quiet, allowing Josephine and Leliana to continue the conversation, the former trying to strengthen diplomatic relations, the latter extracting information from the tiniest of naunces. With the usual hooded armour abandoned in favour of a modest dark green dress, Leliana looks every part the innocent and curious maiden she's pretending to be. Her smiles are never too sweet to give away their perfunctory nature, and if Lilith didn't know the other woman already, she might have fallen for the act as well. Once, she catches sight of Cole on the other side of the dining hall, seemingly deep in thought, eyebrows drawing together in a frown before he looks in the direction of the hallways leading to the eastern ramparts. A servant bringing in the main dish blocks her line of vision. When the maid moves away, Lilith glances back at him. He is no longer there anymore.

"You should visit Wycome if your travels take you to the Free Marches, Inquisitor," Antoine's modulated tenor voice drags her attention back to the debate. "We would be honoured to have you with us."

"The honour would be ours," she replies with a smile that rivals one of Leliana's. His gaze remains on her face for a few heartbeats, unfathomable, before he focuses back on his food. She does likewise, calmly slicing a piece of meat, pretending to have not noticed anything. That is what they have been doing all night anyway – pretending.

The rest of the dinner passes with Cullen and Dominique talking about the merits of having high morale in an army. When the supper is over, the ambassador suggests that they relocate from the dining hall to another part of Skyhold for the remainder of the evening. Almost everyone agrees. As they are standing up, Lilith looks at Cole's empty chair opposite her, sticking out like a sore thumb. Where is he? He was supposed to be back after dinner. The nobility haven't mentioned a thing about his obvious absence, so it is safe to assume the spirit has made all of them forget about him before his departure.

"I will be joining you in a few minutes," Lilith politely excuses herself before walking to the eastern hallways.

It feels like stepping into a whole different castle when she unlocks the door and enters the corridor. This is a wing of Skyhold were nobody except for the guard patrols visit. It is unfurnished, yet not repaired, the few torches on the walls casting just enough light to avoid stumbling over the debris lying on the floor.

The path reaches a junction, with stairways on either side, one going up and the other down. She goes down, ducking under a wooden beam half-blocking the way to the next secluded corridor. There are doors leading to empty rooms, and she checks inside the ones she passes for the sake of thoroughness. It probably would have been a better call to scan the upper level first before the underground-

She stops.

There is movement in the Veil, the source drawing closer to her apace. Expectant, Lilith turns to see the door behind her open, Cole coming out of stealth.

"Where did you go? I've been searching-"

"They have the red inside."

His reply stuns her into momentary silence.

"Who?" she manages.

"It is too loud. I cannot tell them apart," he agitatedly responds.

She speeds in the direction of the dining hall without delay. "Have you warned Cullen?"

"No. They were masked until now," he answers, falling into step beside her.

Where are the guards? They should be patrolling this area now.

"They are here," whispers Cole.

She takes a left and goes for the chamber at end of the hallway, not slowing down. "Lock the door behind us," Lilith whispers back.

He quickly does as instructed when they're in the next room, and she frosts the torches, enshrouding them both in total darkness. Someone pushes the door, trying to get it open, once, twice. They never use the handle. They can't. The realisation chills her to the bone, but she has little time to conjure a barrier before the obstruction is broken down, sending splinters in her direction.

She remains motionless as four Templar Shadows creep into the chamber, searching for any sign of their preys. The ominous dull light emitting from their red lyium growths dimly illuminates their surrounding area. Too close.

Lilith edges further into the blackness, away from the enemies. Outrunning them is not an option, and neither she nor Cole has any weapon or armour; a single slash can be fatal.

She senses Cole shift beside her, his left hand cautiously reaching for the tall candle stand by the wall, grasping the firm metal. A Shadow turns, catching sight of them both. She wastes no time to erect a barrier as Cole swings the sturdy pole to hit the monster under the chin, then forcefully kick it in the chest, hurling it backwards. A human would have been dead by now – head dislocated, ribs all broken – but the abomination growls and scrambles back up to its feet. She smashes it into the opposite wall with Stonefist and freezes another in mid-air, before phasing to the other side of the room to evade a vicious swing meant for her neck, catching a glimpse of Cole as he slams down the metal onto the frozen arm of the Templar, shattering the ice and severing the appendage. Another Shadow comes out of stealth, bringing down both bladed arms to pierce his skull. He lifts the pole to block the attack mere inches from his head, his grip on the metal threatening to give away under the potent force of the monster's swing. The sound of ice cracking makes Cole glance over his shoulder just in time to see the once-frozen Templar try to attack him from behind with its remaining arm. Immediately, he ghosts through the front opponent, and the Templar impales its own comrade instead, killing it on the spot. Before it can recover from the shock and yank out its arms, Lilith hits it with a barrage of molten particles, burning through its flesh and bone. She lifts her hand to attack the two remaining monsters, but there is no sign of them.

Cursing under her breath, she conjures a barrier. The floorboard to her left creaks, and without losing a beat, she plants an ice mine closeby. It instantly explodes to encase a Shadow in ice. Where is the other one?

A growl. Movement just behind her.

Alarmed, she spins round to disrupt a stealth attack obviously meant for her flank. The Stonefist that leaves her fingertips connects with the lurking Templar, hurling it backwards into the window, smashing it on impact. Even from this distance, she can hear the bones crack. The monster slides down the wall, dead, countless shards of glass impaling its neck and skull. She turns to deal with the frozen Templar to her right, but before she can cast a spell, a half-dozen knives whir past her ear to pierce through the ice and straight into the enemy's helmet. The blood that gushes down its neck is an obvious sign that the blades have hit their marks under the headgear.

Lilith takes an involuntary step back as the lifeless body slumps to the floor, before looking in the direction of where the attack was originated: Cole is standing where she left him, barely visible in the red lyrium's illumination, candle stand still in hand.

"Are you injured?" she asks, stepping over the corpse and closer to him.

"No," he quietly replies. He doesn't look at her. She doesn't know why.

"Inquisitor!" Cullen's voice interrupts her thoughts. "Inquisitor!"

"We're here!" She lights the nearby torch with a flick of her wrist.

The sound of boots and clunking of armour draws closer, and some seconds later, the Commander himself appears in the doorway, a group of soldiers right behind him. "Thank the-" He sees the Red Templars, and asks aghast, "What's happened?"

If he didn't know they were in danger, then why is he here?

She already has some ideas. "Where's the Duke?"

"Missing. I didn't think much of it the first few minutes, but then the guard patrol of this wing were found dead. All five of them." He moves into the chamber. "Is he behind all of this?" He doesn't wait for a reply before turning to one of his men. "Captain! I want all guards stationed and at full alert. Search the entire perimeter for Duke Antoine."

"Yes, sir!" the man breaks off from the group, motioning for two other soldiers to follow him.

"He'll have a lot to answer for," Cullen sullenly states.

"He won't."

Their gazes shift to Leliana, now standing in the archway.

"A scout just found him in one of the corridors. Dead."

A moment of shocked silence as they absorb the information.

"Maker..." Cullen says under his breath, eyes scanning the room unseeingly as he tries to find a way to balance this nightmare.

She doubts Corypheus would make such pitiful an attempt at assassination; he wants to be seen taking down the Inquisition himself, so someone else must be behind this.

Lilith starts making her way back to the main hall, the others following her close behind. "Be on guard. There might be other Red Templars in Skyhold."

"I do not hear any," murmurs Cole, sticking to the back of the group.

They cannot afford to be careless again, so she tells Cullen to maximise security and do not allow anyone to enter or exit Skyhold without his or Leliana's approval.

"Did Antoine have any letters on him?"

"Only a notebook filled with the diplomatic issues that he wanted to discuss with Josephine," the Spymaster replies.

"Forward it to my room."

The other woman nods and leaves the group when they reach the main hall, where the noble entourage of Wycome have already gathered, demanding answers. They are scared, but they try not to let it show on their faces. Lilith lingers in the hall just long enough for them to know she isn't dead, allowing the ambassador to handle the mess, because that is what Josephine prefers. When the crowd calms down somewhat and the situation is contained, she makes a beeline for her quarters, asking Cole to come along. The scout by the doorway, she dismisses after he hands her the notebook previously owned by Antoine.

"I want you to write down anything important you heard tonight," she explains to Cole as they climb the stairs to her room. "Even if it was the thought of a simple maid." A single word could act as a lead, a clue getting them closer to the one responsible for what happened tonight, perhaps even reveal something about Corypheus.

She goes to her desk to search for a parchment and quill, waiting for him to inquire more directions, maybe even recite a memory like usual, but he remains quiet, and so she looks up, skeptical. He is standing some metres away from her, in the middle of the room, staring at the floor, head bowed. In the candlelight, she now notices a tear in his shirt. The bottom left part of the garment, under the rib cage, is a shade darker than the rest.

Wordlessly, she approaches him and lifts the clothes just enough to see the injury underneath: a flesh wound about the size of a palm, the bleeding already reduced to a slight flow.

She raises her eyes to his. He doesn't meet her gaze.

After motioning him to sit on the sofa, she goes to her bedside drawer to retrieve a towel and a bottle of disinfectant before taking a seat beside him.

"When I said you could lie tonight, I didn't mean to me," Lilith calmly says, unbuttoning his shirt. She isn't expecting a reply and it comes as no surprise when he gives none, watching the flames in the fireplace instead, despaired. As she touches the towel moistened by the clear blue liquid to his wound, however, he reacts with a soundless wince. She lightens the pressure but doesn't pause. Sometimes, it is necessary to endure a pain to survive in this universe.

"It was my fault," he finally talks, voice raspy and low, brittle with some strong emotion.

"It wasn't." She continues to clean the scar.

"If I had heard them sooner, better, faster..." He swallows, tries to overcome the choking feeling in his chest. "If I had been-"

"Cole." Her tone demands his immediate attention, but he still doesn't meet her gaze. "Stop blaming yourself. This was  _not_  your fault."

"But it was! Hopelessly focused on helping the hurt that I failed to find what hurt the most." His voice becomes even quieter, broken. "Helpless..."

She gently grabs his chin and turns his head to her. This time, he doesn't evade her gaze.

"Some things are outside the boundaries of this world. Wishing doesn't bring anything back here from the past, and wallowing in remorse doesn't create a better future," she softly states. "Accept that, and move on."

He looks down at the wound.

"It stings."

He isn't talking about the injury.

"It'll heal."

She isn't, either.

Just like earlier today, she tenderly rakes a hand through his strands, pushing them away from his eyes – a simple gesture meant to comfort him. Then she gets up and goes behind her desk to start reading the Duke's notebook. She's halfway through the first page when Cole stands up and approaches the table, grabs a parchment from it, along with a quill and the ink bottle, before going back to sit on the sofa. She regards him as he begins drafting, lost in thoughts, one leg tucked close to his chest, the knee serving as a writing surface. The tip of the quill moves steadily on the paper in what appears to be cursive penmanship. He never recites anything. Maybe she insisted too much upon it when they were practicing 'courtly etiquette' this very afternoon. Maybe it is his sadness. He always feels sad, but it is usually for others, not for himself. Not because of himself.

Lilith shifts her focus back to the words in the notebook, determined to finish it before going to sleep. The battle earlier has sapped her mana reserve and the fatigue is catching up with her. Ten pages later, she resigns and rests her head on the desk, to close her dry eyes for some minutes.

When she wakes up, the sun is rising. There is a blanket over her shoulder, and atop her desk, a stack of parchments filled with sentences and keywords, the important parts underlined. She scans the room for any sign of Cole but finds none.

He is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the battle sequence of this chapter was a challenge. (“Surviving against four Templar Shadows with only a candle stand? It is so impossible I have to do it.”) 
> 
> I had the draft of this ready by last Friday, but could find no spare time to polish it until today. That said, I am still very busy, so it is rather unlikely that I post a new chapter in the next couple of weeks unless a miracle happens. :)
> 
> Thanks to those who commented and left kudos. <3


	8. Aspects

There are more guards patrolling in Skyhold, pondering, panicked by the possibility of another attack, another ambush caused by failure on their part. They didn't fail anyone, yet they carry the blame, brittle and broken. Cullen's sound the loudest. He tried to erase it, but it would always return, along with the gnawing need for lyrium.

Everyone is alert, alarmed, even civilians. He is, too. The daggers now hiding in his boots feel foreign and forced, but he will get used to them soon. He has to. It took too much effort, too much begging to the Fade to let him conjure a handful of knives last night. It hurt him then. It still hurts as he concentrates, cracking the boundaries between the worlds to create another set of blades. He is going to try until it stops hurting this much. She almost died. He did, too. All because he was careless and unarmed.

Five more daggers join the pile on the floor. His hand aches, but he tries one more time.

It is still early morning when the noble entourage of Wycome leave Skyhold, scared of what has happened and what is about to come. There's so much noise in the main courtyard. Murmurs of insecurity and doubt. He tries to avoid there as he does his daily round. Apple for Rosaline, peppermint for the cats playing by the tree. He takes a plum from the cabinet in the kitchen, but doesn't slice it to lay the pieces on a window sill. The barrel full of knives, he places in the armoury, running into Dorian on his way out. He apologises to the mage for ruining his shirt, but the other man doesn't understand why. He cannot see the tear in the garment, nor the blood staining it. Nobody can. He makes them all forget.

All except one.

She finds him in the secluded tower at the edge of the eastern rampart while he's leaving food for the birds. The dark coat she's wearing offers more protection than her usual uniform; she's alarmed, like everyone else. The defensive aura surrounding her hums different today. Stronger, more potent. It is still gentler than the discomforting noises within the castle, and he lifts his head to regard its brilliant radiation – white, pure, and immaculate, unlike the tip of his fingers dully stained with ink that water hasn't been able to wash away.

"Where you awake all night?" Trevelyan asks, taking a seat beside him on the low alcove.

"I rarely sleep." Last, it was a week ago, and only because Solas needed his help in the Fade.

He tries to pile the bread crumbs in one corner, even though they're more content to listen to the wind and be scattered. In this world, he realised, things are seldom obedient.

"Do you dream when you do?" There is more than curiosity in her voice, unclear. It is always difficult to discern her.

"Sometimes. Always, maybe. I do not remember them." They're in bits and pieces, scattered like the crumbs on the window sill. Everything and nothing intertwined. It often hurts to wake up; hurts even worse not to. He dreamt of the Black City once, dark, dangerous. Twisted. That time, he couldn't wait for the dream to end.

"Do you miss the Fade?" she kindly prods, patient, pushing him to talk, to pay more attention to her words. Why?

"I don't know," Cole honestly replies. "Do you miss the Circle?"

_Close and confining, yet safer than the world in its current horrid state, without the crushing pressure of the Inquisition – the fate of nations all in the palm of one person._

"I don't know, either," she responds.

A long pause during which her eyes scan the room. She is thinking about a different kind of circle, weighing her options. A circle made of Varric, Cassandra, Vivienne, and everyone else in-between. Even him. Especially him. Almost like how a mother would care for a son, but different in many ways. He's never had a mother, so he cannot really tell.

"Is it silent here?" questions Trevelyan.

The birds sing, but their thoughts are sanguine and sweet, never screaming in agony. "It is better." He gives up on the bread crumbs. They can wander however they want.

"I recall promising to find a comfortable place for you to settle, so..." She gets up and goes to one of the wooden bars lying on the dusty floor. "Lend me a hand, please."

He stands up but doesn't move. She knows he lingers at Herald's Rest, to hear, to help. She doesn't mind his staying at the tavern. Nobody minds; they can't see him. Then what has changed?

"Why are we doing this?" he asks, confused.

"Because it yet 'stings'."

She knows. And she cannot even read his thoughts.

"That despondent expression of yours is telling enough," Trevelyan offers the answer without him inquiring. "I fear it'll be carved into your face if you wear it any longer."

She moves a piece of rubble that doesn't weigh much from the centre to the side of the room, trying to clean the chamber. "This is how  _we_  'forget': by busying ourselves with a beneficial activity and allowing the pain to fade away."

It sounds wasteful, waiting weeks for a hurt to dissipate when it can vanish in a heartbeat. "Can't we aid other people?"

She stops to look at him. "Does it help?"

"Yes," he answers without thinking.

She rephrases the question: "Does it help you?"

"Yes," he repeats. But uncertain.

She doesn't believe him, either. "Then why are you still in despair?"

He usually is. That is point of his existence, his purpose: to feel people's despairs – their sorrowful seething emotions – and help. Today, however, it is a lot louder, coming from within him and not from the others. It started last night, this sad song sapping everything of its colour. She cannot hear it. Nobody can. "Why is it important?"

"Cole, if you shriek and begin hurling icicles in my direction just because you refused to move a few planks..." she jokes, but even she doesn't find humour in it. The demon in the Fallow Mire almost froze her solid. She isn't concerned about that right now. She's troubled about something else, the ifs and perhaps tangling into a knot more complicated than the ones adorning his shirt. Torn and bloody, her thoughts and his garment.

"You'll have to kill me," he finishes her sentence.

The perfunctory nonchalant expression of her face leaves completely to be replaced with one more sombre. "Don't throw around that phrase lightly."

It's what she must do. He doesn't want to hurt anyone else. Not anymore. Not like what happened at the Spire, when his actions were mutilated and misguided. "I do not matter," he argues, expecting her to argue back. But she doesn't.

Trevelyan just holds his gaze, quiet and calculating.

Suddenly, she closes the gap between them, grabs his wrists and pushes him backwards. A gasp leaves his mouth as his back hits the wall, not out of pain, but out of shock, out of fear. What is she doing?

He ghosts away from her grasp, cloaking. Has he already changed? Is she trying to take him down?

His heart beats unusually fast, not listening to his plea to slow down. When he looks at her, she's still standing by the wall, appearance composed and  _calm._ But she feels a lot more rueful on the inside. He doesn't understand-

"I knew you would put up a fight. I know you will be." The words are resonant in the hush, breaking the silent between them.

The realisation leaves him numb.

Her head turns in his direction. She cannot see him, yet she can. With a different kind of sight.

She says softly, "Stop hiding."

He does not.

So she comes to stand right in front of him, a feet away.

"Stop hiding from reality."

He doesn't move when Trevelyan raises a hand to where she assumes his face would be. The tip of her fingers brush over his cheek in the faintest of caresses, and he allows the cloak to finally vanish under her touch. It's difficult to meet her gaze, but he does. She lays a palm against his face, gentle, genuinely trying to comfort him.

"And stop thinking of death as an alternative."

Her blonde strands languidly sway in the light breeze coming through the window. He now knows it is wrong to compare their softness to the curtains hanging in her quarters. He knows because his fingers accidentally passed over them, last night, as he was laying a blanket over her slumbering form. And then again as he shifted her head, just a little, so she wouldn't wake up with a stiff neck. The air smells of sandalwood and lilac – the same fragrance she always uses. How comes he never-

"Your Worship?"

Her hand drops upon hearing the voice, and just like that, the moment ends, the dull dark reality of the world surrounding them drifting back into its place. She half-turns to see the person seeking her appear in the doorway some seconds later: a guard, one of Cullen's men. He tells her the Commander is searching for her. He says why, but Cole doesn't listen to their short conversation. Instead, he stares at the piece of rubble close to the wall – the one she moved not long ago. It faintly hums, like how his hair did yesterday, after she raked a hand through it. Maybe his face, too, is barely illuminated. Not everything shines upon her touch. He wonders why.

Footsteps, getting away.

He lifts his head, and catches her eyes as she glances over her shoulder once before leaving the room, troubled thoughts kept from showing on her features, neatly concealed under the mask of the 'Inquisitor'. Posture placid, perfectly regal.

It becomes silent without her in the tower. The birds still sing, sweet and sanguine, but too subtle to quell the suffocating whispers screaming close to his ears. So he leaves as well, making everyone on his way to the main hall forget about his presence. Varric is not by the fireplace. He is quiet; it is difficult to find him here at Skyhold, where others make so much noise.

The rotunda feels different today. Maybe it is the now-complete fresco, showing the destruction of the Conclave. There is more regret on the wall than colour. The pigments talk to him as he lays a palm on the painted surface, in a tone so poignant. Pained.

"I heard about what happened last night."

It is Solas. Always able to see him.

"How are you feeling, Cole?"

Confused, unsure, and disturbed, yet still numb from what happened at the tower, mixing together to create an emotion he cannot put a name on. He has no trouble finding the hurts of others, but is helpless when it comes to fathoming his own hurts. He can make himself forget, to feel just  _one_  thing on the inside – compassion – but the turmoil will come back again. It took him many attempts to realise that.

Things are seldom obedient in this world.

He stares unseeingly at the image before him. "Are you afraid of dying?"

Seconds pass before Solas says, by of a reply, "Much will be lost if I die early."

Cole lets his hand slide on the painting to stay on the starting point of the explosion – a mistake no one can ever forget. Much is already lost.

"I thought I was going to die today. False, foolish..." he murmurs. "I thought it wouldn't matter." He finally turns to the elf, standing by the table near the doorway. "Why does it do?"

Solas regards him, pensive, as if discerning things of which Cole is unaware. As if the answer is plain to be seen. "Do you enjoy living in this world?"

The crows lingering at the uppermost level caw - a raucous sound, unlike the laughter of the children playing in the courtyard, the melodies heard at the tavern. Unlike the macabre lullaby of those died in Haven, the twisted song of red lyrium, or crunching of snow under his boots as he followed the Inquisition through the Frostback Mountains, seeking, searching, for something more than a home. The nobles in the main hall are whispering to each other again, sharing secrets, sad tales of betrayal, unfaithfulness and murder. And smiling. Their masks never fall even when they're staring into a mirror, seeing a lie, told so many times they themselves now believe it. Everyone lies in this world – even an innocent maiden forcing a smile to her lips, hoping to hide the melancholy inside from a beloved. He has been lying as well, for far longer since last night at the dinner. Yesterday, he simply learned that he could use words to convey them, creating an illusion to delude, to evade. Similar to a mage casting spells in battle, but a lot more deadly. Wrong, dishonest and unfair. Damaging to the one uttering it; he feels himself wilt every time one escapes his mouth. He lied many times to her in the past day, not always by means of sentences. Futilely attempting to fix things, but making them more broken in the process.

The air smells of sandalwood and lilac even though she isn't near.

"No," Cole says at length.

Solas doesn't seem convinced. Was he expecting a 'yes', a phrase hinting at discontent, the desire to want more? He doesn't want more out of this life. He must go outside and help, not stand here, halting and hesitant. He leaves the rotunda, wondering if he just lied to himself.

He aids the soldiers move the bags of supplies to the storeroom, folds the blankets for the maids. Dennet returns to the stables to find the grooming equipment already clean. Josephine takes a bite of the saffron cookie while jotting down a note, still thinking it is the young elven servant supplementing them for her tea. The chef is very tired, but he doubts she would appreciate his cooking. He washes the dishes instead. It makes him less loud, but not as much as it used to.

His feet take him back to the secluded tower at the edge of the eastern rampart. The room is in its previous state of disarray, but now, there is a package sitting on the low alcove close to the window. The indigo cloth wrapping encasing it hums with a tune most familiar, touched by fingers that brushed over his face not long ago, lingering. She knew he would come back here. He doesn't know how; he wasn't planning to.

Tentatively, he opens the package to find a new hat inside – shaped like the worn one he owns, but dark grey, made of finer enchanted material. Harritt's work. He really wants to wear it now, but also doesn't want to at the same time. Underneath it, he finds a note in her elegant penmanship, written with the same quill he used last night. The parchment speaks in her voice.

 _'If you are still interested in busying yourself, ask Cullen to direct you to the newly-discovered hallways beneath Skyhold._ _There is a rather stubborn lock here that could use your_ _persuasive abilities._ _'_

* * *

Cullen wanted to send a guard with him for guidance, but he told the man he didn't need one. All he has to do is follow her song.

There are soldiers patrolling the area, vigilant. It is colder down here, dusty and dark – the few torches cannot light the whole corridor. Cannot dissipate the chill. There is so much sad story trapped in the stone walls. Like the fresco in the rotunda, but without all the colours. He goes down the spiral staircase, finding her sitting on the bottom step, a map of Skyhold on her lap. She raises her head at the sound of his approaching footfalls and half-turns to look at him, noticing that he isn't wearing a hat but not mentioning it.

"Hello," he begins, timid, not knowing how he should behave after what happened at the tower. He probably should apologise-

"Hello," Trevelyan replies in her usual composed tone. "Did you run into Varric on your way down?" She gets up, folding the map before putting it in her coat pocket. So natural and at ease, as if nothing is out of the ordinary. It is comforting, yet confusing.

"No."

She walks to the double door at the end of the hallway and he follows after her.

"Varric has bent a set of lock picks in this," she explains when the reach the metal gate. "We could always destroy it, but I'd rather save something as sturdy as this, at least until we have its design."

Trevelyan hands him a box. There are ten lock picks inside, and he takes out one before dropping to one knee in front of the door. He coaxes the tiny tool into the lock and slightly rotates it clockwise-

It breaks.

He uses another one, this time starting with a light twist in the opposite direction.

"I read the notes you left on my desk – thank you, by the way. I have to ask, though," She briefly pauses when the second lock pick cracks. "What is 'slow sinister patting of so many feet, hanging upside down'?"

He discards the now-destroyed short hook in favour of a half diamond. "There was a spider crawling on the ceiling."

"That phrase was underlined," she deadpans.

"It fell into the soup bowl." His eyebrows draw together as he remembers the scene. "I couldn't save it."

A short soft chuckle, washing away unhappiness. "Maker, I'm glad I didn't eat that."

"You shouldn't visit the kitchen," Cole innocently mentions. Trevelyan feels a bit disturbed. Maybe he should make her forget his statement, after asking her permission.

Another pick breaks, the sound definite in the empty corridor.

He looks up at Trevelyan. "Sorry," mumbles Cole, to which she gives a shrug, wryly saying, "They're Varric's."

The lock wouldn't listen to him no matter how much he tries. It cannot.

"It is jammed." He gets back to his feet. "It wants me to speak to it from the other side. If I make myself sing the same as the door, it will allow me to pass through."

She doesn't seem assured. "Have you tried this before?"

"No." He closes his eyes, concentrating, trying to mimic the music of the metal. It is difficult to get the notes right without a sheet in front. There is one, but it was taught by a smith not to reveal its secrets to just anyone.

"Cole, if you injure yourself-"

Movement beside him. A hand rising to grasp his upper arm and make him stop, failing, circling around nothing but air; he flows forward – fast, free and unfathomable. It feels like diving into a lake in a hot summer day, cool wind blowing over his face as he rides on a horse. Lasting for just a moment. His feet touches solid ground on the other side and he opens his eyes, perceiving the vast empty hall. It is dark, but he doesn't need light to hear the tall bookshelves on either side murmuring, missing the tomes they once used to house. Some still linger, silent, the ink on their pages long faded.

"Cole, can you hear me?" Her voice, barely audible through the thick door, tinged with worry.

He sink to one knee and starts persuading the lock. "Yes."

Her relief is tangible even through the barrier between them. "What's on the other side?"

"A chamber."

"Can you be more specific?"

A  _click_ , accompanied by the clear sound of tiny pins falling into place. He gets up, turning the handle, and the gate swings open to reveal Trevelyan on the other side. Her brow is slightly furrowed, but her half-smile nullifies any effect the frown might have on her expression. Her tone doesn't carry any sternness when she says, "I should probably chide you for risking your life for a lock."

The torches comes to life with a casual flick of her wrist, and she pauses for several heartbeats to appraise her surroundings before walking in the direction of the nearest bookcase with measured strides. Is he to stay? To leave the hall? The door is open now, so he has no reason to linger in the area. The shy elven maid with freckles on her cheeks is changing the bed sheets soon. She could use a little help.

Trevelyan is carefully going through pages of a tome to see if any of its lines has survived the passage of time, finding a few – readable but undiscernible to her. They're written in a language she cannot understand.  _Maybe Solas can._

Cole walks to the left side of the room where she's standing and places the box of lock picks on the alcove in front of her. She doesn't raise her eyes from the book as he begins to move away.

"Didn't like your new hat?"

He stops.

Yes, he liked it. He liked it very much. But that is not the response she is searching for; her words always have layers under their layers, like the hat she left for him in the tower. Wearing it felt wrong. He described the feeling to Varric yesterday – the foreign one making itself more familiar whenever he made a mistake – and learned that it is called 'guilt'. A persistent powerful pressure over the soul that refuses to be forgotten.

"Thank you," he mutters.

"You're welcome," she equably replies, turning over a page. "Even though that didn't answer my question."

He traces the edge of the alcove with a finger. The dust remembers the patterns he draws. His words hurt her today, then why did she present him a gift?

"Why did you give it to me?" he asks, confused.

"Consider it repayment for the curtains."

"I didn't pay for them."

"Right. I did." She closes the book and observes the symbols on its leather-bound cover. "Thanks for creating that considerable dent in my pocket."

"I'm sorry." He drops his hand so she can replace the tome back on the alcove. "I'll sew it for you, if you like."

"I think your shirt is in more need of sewing than my money reserve."

She can see the tear; she told him not to make her forget.

"Why are you still wearing it?"

He nudges a pebble on the floor with the toe of his boot. "You have my shirt."

"Which doesn't fare much better than your current one," she factually adds.

The weight of her gaze is palpable, as is the alteration in the tone of her voice when she softly asks, "Are you afraid of changing?"

"The knots are complicated."

"You know what I mean."

He stops moving the pebble. It rolls, unhurried, until it gets stuck in a shallow crack on the floorboard. Trapped. All because it unknowingly wandered astray, unable to resist the forces applied to it. If it's asking him to free it, he cannot hear the plea.

He is getting louder. Slightly, slowly, a little more everyday.

"Yes."

Too quiet, but her ears still catch the whisper.

The weight of her gaze is palpable as she regards him with solemn consideration.

"You really shouldn't be..."

She doesn't say why even though she has a lot to say. Instead, she takes the box of lock picks from the alcove, turns away and goes for the doorway.

He lifts his head to watch her retreating form. Her features are not visible from this angle, but he knows that her expression is as calm as her demeanour. It is a wholly different matter inside her head. She doesn't seem to _mind_ the ever-present stirring emotions within her, however - a bottle carrying too much content. Sometimes they become suffocating, but she simply allows them to spill over the brim, and moves on. Everyone seems to do so in this world. Enjoying life while enduring themselves, aware and yet oblivious. Maybe they have grown numb to their feelings after all this time. Maybe he would, too, after a while. Maybe he should.

The air smells of sandalwood and lilac, even though there's no one else in the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like usual, thank you very much for the comments and kudos. :>


	9. Journey

 

It is an hour before sunset when they begin the preparations for the journey to Crestwood. Normally, she avoids travelling at night, but after what has happened, it is not very wise to stick to 'normal'. A predictable target is easy to assassinate. And a lot of people want her dead – the ambush yesternight its blatant testimony.

Blackwall volunteered to accompany them for the trip. That was to be expected. His utter disinterest in discussing the matter of the Wardens, was not. She wonders if it has to do with an oath of secrecy or simple ignorance. Neither of them is comforting. The former hints at heinous truths better left to be unheard, the latter at something worse.

Her musings are interrupted when Varric arrives at the stables, having finally managed to find Cole. The first thing she notices about the spirit is the large grey hat he is now wearing. He appears to be more at ease, but that is probably just on the surface; a human would have enough trouble overcoming negative emotions, a Fade denizen even more so. She hasn't told anyone about the subtle change in his behaviour, though she has a hunch Solas already knows. Varric seems a bit more oblivious.

As they ride out of Skyhold, she allows Solas to take the lead. He is more familiar with the surrounding area, and she wants to use the last of daylight to check the map. It is going to be an eight-days journey to Crestwood, ten-days if they run into a blizzard. And judging by the dark angry clouds on the horizon, they definitely would.

“Mother Giselle was chiding Sparkler again,” Varric nonchalantly informs.

Lilith folds the map before putting it back in her satchel. “Are you sure it wasn't Dorian enticing Mother Giselle into an argument?”

“Yeah, probably that.” The dwarf continues, “He's going to droop enduring both Cassandra _and_ Madame Vivienne for three weeks on his own. Maybe you should have let him tag along.”

“Then _I_ would have 'drooped' having to listen to his opinion of my beard for that long,” Blackwall remarks.

“He's right, though. It can use a makeover,” says Varric, receiving a grumble in response from the other man. “I know of only one other guy brandishing this particular style of facial hair and you really don't want to meet him. Which you can't – he's dead.”

“Totally the fault of his beard,” Blackwall dryly concludes.

Some hours later, snow starts to fall, first slowly, then faster – the powerful gusts of wind pushing the flakes toward their faces – and they are forced to take shelter in a cave until the storm ends. It is spacious enough to allow room for their mounts and set up a campfire. Like last time in the Fallow Mire, Blackwall and Varric exchange tales of their expeditions until it is too late to stay awake. Solas offers to stand watch, but she tells him she'd rather their guide be fully alert tomorrow, that he should rest and not lose the opportunity of dreaming in an old place like this. Regardless, he stays awake to translate the first chapter of an elven tome found in the newly-discovered library beneath Skyhold. When it is over, he hands her the parchment filled in his elegant handwriting before politely saying goodnight.

Half an hour later, she is the only one not asleep in the cave. She, and a certain spirit sitting across her, back pressed against the opposite wall, legs tucked close to his chest, watching the fire quietly burn. From time to time, she senses his eyes on her, but she ignores it, reading a book on rift magic, determined not to be the one to break the silence between them; she won't always be around to coax him out of his forlorn shell.

It feels like a tomb this deep within the cave, where the howling of winds have been reduced to low mournful cries.

“You wanted to ask Dorian to come,” he finally speaks, for the first time without being prompted ever since they left Skyhold.

She turns a page without looking up. “I did.”

A short, simple answer, not enough to satisfy his curiosity or soothe his confusion.

Several heartbeats is all he waits before giving in and stating, “Varric can open locks.”

“You're not here to open locks.”

His next response comes after a shorter pause. A direct inquiry. “Why am I here?”

He's here because leaving him alone for more than a fortnight wasn't wise, in a castle full of misery where no matter how much he tries, the problems will not be solved. He is here because there's much more to this world than folding blankets and leaving cookies for Josephine. He's here because he needs helps just as much as the others, and it's about time he realises it.

He's here for all of these reasons and more.

She doesn’t tell him that. Instead, she shifts her gaze to him and says, “I thought you might like to try your new trick on more enemies.”

He knows of which one she is talking – the one he didn't think to make any mention of afterwards, as if it were a simple matter to bring down a Red Templar with blades summoned from another world, another place.

“Is it conjuration magic?”

She already knows the answer but wants to hear him say it aloud, admit it. To himself.

“No.”

Still hiding from reality.

“Why? Because you aren't a 'mage'?”

Still avoiding change – changing back to who he were before stepping through the Veil, changing into something more here, something less. Trying to remain in-between forever. Who is this 'Cole' he is attempting desperately to impersonate, a shadow looming over every step of the way? Not _him_ . _He_ doesn't need to have daggers to defend himself, doesn't need to quell all his innate abilities except for the power to vanish simply because he wants to escape. He always wants to escape.

Varric steers in his bedroll and cracks open his eyes. She directs her gaze back to the book laid open before her while Cole continues to watch the fire quietly burning between them. Falling into their previous state of silence.

Unchanged. But this time, it is just a pretence. 

 

* * *

They left the cave early in the morning, when the blizzard was reduced to flakes falling sparingly from the clouds overhead. Solas guided them down the mountain, and when the snow covering the ground thinned and patches of hardy bushes began to appear, he slowed his mount so she could take charge again. Always letting her take charge, take all the credit. She confronted him about this once, when they were journeying to Skyhold after the destruction of Haven, and he calmly said he doesn't like being at the centre of attention – an honest and elusive answer. And she didn't push him for more then, knowing she wouldn't get any further. This habit of him reminds her of Cole. Always keeping a part of the truth hidden, for themselves, as if saying the whole thing aloud would damage them and everything around forever. But where Solas is composed and impassive in his demeanour, Cole is less guarded when it comes to not showing his inner turmoil, less experienced; his emotions are apparent in his pale blue eyes, when they aren't hiding beneath his blond strands, when his large hat is not casting a shadow over his features, concealing them.

The leaf of the prophet laurel feels soft and velvety under her touch. He found it, 'serenely singing a song' next to a berry bush while they were riding through the pine forest, and they decided to linger in the area so she could collect the rare plants and the horses get some rest. The clank of stone against metal reaches her ears one more time before Blackwall manages to hammer the tent stakes into the hard ground. From the corner of her eyes, she sees Cole wander deeper into the forest, picking elfroots along the way, and she motions for Varric to accompany him. Not that the spirit requires any bodyguard; he's certainly capable enough to handle most dangerous situations.

There's movement beside her and she glances at Solas as he joins her in picking the laurels.

“It's easier to grow them using the bulb than their seed.”

“They won't survive the trip to Crestwood.” She surveys the area, trying to give the location to memory. “Maybe on the return journey.”

Blackwall says the logs are damp and he's having difficultly starting a fire. Solas tells the man to leave it for now; he'll be there in a minute to kindle the flames with magic.

The cold breeze that passes through the forest carries with it the fragrance of Andraste's Grace. A scent that reminds her very much of her home, her family, the Free Marches... a time when everything was normal, safe. A time before the Breach.

“I finished the book you lent me,” Lilith speaks, more to shift her attention elsewhere, from the memories. Solas doesn't reply, but she takes the slight tilt of his head in her direction as her cue to continue. “I may need your help with creating gravitational fields.”

“Still determined to learn every spell ever mentioned in that tome.” His voice is calm, like his demeanour.

“It would have been easier if I had started under your supervision from the beginning,” she coolly counters.

“You seem to be in capable hands.”

She swears there was a ghost of a wry smile on his lips.

“Have you _talked_ to her, Solas? There are times when I wonder-”

A shriek, coming from deep within the forest. Loud, piercing and ominous. Definitely a Terror's.

“Blackwall!”

The man is already rushing toward them, sword drawn. She doesn't wait for him to reach them before hurrying into the forest, searching for the source of the sound. There's another cry, followed by an explosion, and as she approaches the commotion, her Mark comes to life. Sure enough, there's a rift right ahead, with shades, greater terrors, and a rage demon close to it. Varric is standing on an elevated spot, firing rapidly at a shade and telling Cole that it is rather futile to kill the demons now when new ones can pour from the open rift.

Lilith hits the nearest terror with Chain Lightening, making her presence known... 

 

* * *

“All of it?”

He warily regards the clear liquid swirling in the small vial she's holding before him.

“It's not that much to begin with, Cole.”

Usually she doesn't impose on him to consume, knowing his disposition toward digesting, but the burns he sustained from the rage demon earlier today are not going heal easily without the aid of medicine.

“It smells strange,” he states, still making no move to take the bottle from her.

“Chamomile extract. For tranquillising properties,” Lilith patiently replies.

After half a minute, he finally gives in, tentatively reaching for the vial to take it from her. It looks like it pains him to drink the concoction – it certainly doesn't taste that great – but he downs it without further complaint before handing the empty bottle back to her.

She places the vial on the tree trunk that's serving as a small table in her tent. “There are cranberries in my backpack. You can take some if the taste is unbearable.”

“I don't eat.”

And she doesn't insist. She just walks to the other side, to where her bedroll is laid on the ground and proceeds to separate the prophet laurel leaves from their branches, preparing them for potionmaking. It's mainly to keep her busy until the downpour stops, but judging by how heavy it is raining right now, that might take quite a while.

She senses movement in the tent as Cole comes closer to aid her with preparing the herbs.

“The potion is sedative. Rest if you feel tired.”

“I am all right.”

He told her before that he doesn't need to sleep as frequently as the others. He doesn't eat, doesn't drink, and doesn't seem to be bothered by the unforgiving cold of the mountains. Sometimes, she must remind herself that the person sitting before her used to be a resident of the Fade, not really a human. Not a man barely out of his adolescence.

“How old are you, Cole?” she asks, curious.

He lifts his gaze to her, nonplussed by the sudden inquiry. “Why?”

“I am curious.”

Maybe nobody has ever asked him such a thing before. Maybe he never gave much thought about it.

“I can't remember everything,” Cole says at length.

“What's the first thing you remember?”

He stares at the ground, as if watching the cracks in the stones, the little weeds growing out of them, but she knows his mind is elsewhere. A different place, a different time. His eyes look distant.

“Anderfels,” he breaks the silence. His brow furrows as he tries to grasp at a long forgotten memory, something long buried. “Corpses piling in the alleys. I can’t see, but I can feel. There’s so much pain everywhere, so much fear. The dark are pouring out, dangerous, decimating, killing many in their wake, capturing a few. Turning them into their own. Ninety years of burning flesh, battle, and brittle bones. ‘It’s there,’ they whisper to each other, in misery and dread, as they point at the thing flying close to their hiding place. They call it Zazikel.”

The second blight... She remembers enough of her history lessons to know it occurred in the Divine years, a long time ago.

Suddenly, she feels like a child in his presence.

He is now looking at her. Maybe he sensed the weight of her stare, or her feeling toward what he just recited – it is strangely not surprise. More like a shade of numbness at discovering what she knew all along. He seems to be going through the same thing.

Lilith directs her gaze to the prophet laurels in her lap and resumes removing the seeds. There are many questions she wants to ask, but they better wait; he is bruised and fatigued, and contrary to what he claims, he does need some rest.

“Do you want the branches?” Cole asks in that boyish voice of his.

“Solas does, for a potion.”

The rain has slowed, but he still remains to finish assorting the seeds before leaving, probably in search of Solas, perhaps even Varric. It all depends on which world he wants to know more about. This one, or the other currently unseen – his previous home.

That evening, Blackwall volunteers to cook the supper, and as they’re huddled around the campfire eating, Lilith learns from the conversation exchanged between Solas and Varric that Cole visited neither of them. 

 

* * *

It is almost sunset, but she refuses to give up just yet. If only there was a ladder here...

“What are you doing?” It is Cole, standing ten metres down below, near the broken statue from which she started climbing about thirty minutes ago in search of a shard.

“Making a fool of myself, apparently,” Lilith replies, surveying the area. It must be close, the otherworldly humming indication enough. Near, and hidden from sight. It’ is almost as if it’s teasing her. She frowns. “I can hear it, but can't tell where it is.”

“You can hear it sing?” asks Cole, voice tinged with something akin to wonder.

“Can't everyone?”

“No.”

And now he’s looking right at her. She can’t see his expression, not from this distance, not with his hat casting a shadow on his face, but the weight of his gaze is palpable. Then he simply says, “On the alcove above, to your left.” It takes her a moment to realise he is giving her directions. She resumes climbing.

The shard is where he told her, brilliant, almost mesmerising, and she reaches a hand to pick it up. It is stuck. After all the trouble she went through…

Lilith exhales to calm her nerves, then looks down over the ledge to where Cole is standing. “Toss me a dagger!”

He withdraws one from the sheath attached to his back and does as she ordered, and she telekinetically draws the weapon upwards and nearer so she can easily obtain it. When she is done carving the shard out of its stone basin, she puts in her satchel and attaches the dagger to her own holster before making her way down.

When she lands on the ground, Cole is still beside the broken statue, and she holds out the borrowed weapon for him to take back, and as he is returning the blade to its sheath, she regards his features. The bruises from their last battle have disappeared, and there is no trace of fatigue, but something remains unchanged. Ever since she first saw him in Therinfal Redoubt, it has been like this, as if it is etched into his very being.

“Your skin…” Lilith begins.

He looks at her, confused.

“Was it always sickly pale?” she finishes.

Silence, save for the rustling of leaves in the wind, the coos of a dove perched on a tree.

“There were no mirrors,” he finally says.

The last of daylight is almost disappearing, and they head back toward the camp. It’s not far – maybe a five minutes walk – and she uses this brief window to question him, about a matter that was brought up between them only once and in passing, some time ago, during his revelation down in the Vault.

“Did you enter this world from the White Spire?”

The memory is no doubt enmeshed with agony, but she has to know. He, too. He’s been hiding from it for so long.

“Yes.” It is almost a whisper. “The Veil was thin…”

Of all the places in the world, it has to be there. Tormented and devoid of happiness. Is it a wonder he warped into a-

She doesn’t want to use ‘demon’. Vivienne would, but Lilith rather not. Saying it aloud, even if it’s just inside her head, makes everything different, a lot more real. Her mind supplements ‘murderer’ instead. It’s better, is it not? Same thing without the power of possession.

From her peripheral vision, she can see Cole walking beside her, head bowed as if tired, and she remembers that he can read her thoughts. Every single one.

The camp comes into view. Varric is cleaning Bianca. She approaches the dwarf, quietly tells him to be around the spirit, to cheer him up.

“Has something happened?” he asks.

“Nothing unusual.”

Not exactly a lie, but not the whole truth, either.

 

* * *

“A hundred sovereigns for a ring?”

Varric has been trying to persuade Old Tegrin for a while now. His silver tongue is not going to get him a discount today, and the ring is worth a hundred anyway.

Lilith calmly examines the assortment of enchanted amulets, weapons, and decorative items in the carriage. For a ‘shop’ that is being carried by a cow, the quality of goods are quite remarkable. Blackwall seems to be interested in a large round shield, asks the travelling merchant from where it was scavenged, which irks the old dwarf to no end. He claims to be working on the route to lake Calenhad for more than a decade and to have bargained with the Hero of Ferelden during the reign of Loghain.

“ _These_ ,” says the merchant pointing at a collection of valuable weaponry. “were purchased from Warden Commander Amell.”

Among them, an enchanted long dagger stands out, its dragonbone handle adorned with emerald. Etches into it are master runes of both fire and ice. It’s impressive that someone could attach such opposing elements without either nullifying the other’s effect.

She buys the dagger and the shield. Varric can pay for the ring; he has enough jewellery already. She scans the area for Cole, but he is nowhere nearby.

“Where’s Cole?”

“Wandering about, like usual,” Blackwall replies.

The Mark is sensitive to him - it is to everything from the Fade – and she uses the link to locate him within the forest, not far away from their group, not too near to be found. He is sitting by a pond, sunk to one knee, his hat placed on the ground beside him. No doubt he wants to be alone, so she doesn’t get any nearer. She just watches, as he stares at his reflection in the water, deep in thought.

“He was even paler than this...”

She’s not sure if he is talking to her or to himself. He turns his head slightly in her direction, acknowledging her presence.

“Who?” Lilith prods gently.

“The real Cole.”

Cole… Sometimes she wondered why he chose that specific name. She had guessed, but never thought he would openly talk about it. Not this soon.

“Is this how he looked?”

His voice is almost too quiet to hear, coloured with melancholy. “He couldn't remember the taste of food. Maybe that's why I don't eat.”

He told her he had entered this world from the Spire, so the deceased man must have been an apostate, captured by the Templars, tortured to death.

“You wanted to keep his memory alive,” she surmises, when the silence becomes profound.

“I wanted him to live.”

Lilith moves close to stand beside him. When he doesn’t object, she sits on the ground, right next to his hat. From overhead, a leaf falls into the pond, and the ripples distort his reflection.

“Do you know what I see every time I look at Lelianna?” She picks up the headgear and absentmindedly plays with the rim, aware that she now has his attention. “Someone caged by the burden of being a pretence. Sometimes I just want to tell her that it’s alright to be herself.”

“I am me.”

She lifts her gaze to his. “You’re trying to fulfil the others’ expectations.”

He doesn’t reply, but she knows that he will be thinking about what was said for at least the rest of the day.

It is strangely serene in here – the type of place where one would like to build a cabin and take refuge forever. But they have to leave, and so she returns his hat, gets up and begins walking back toward Old Tegrin’s carriage. She can hear Cole’s footfalls as he follows her out of the forest. Hopefully, the dagger she purchased for him would lift his mood and not sing with the blood of the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No doubt some of you are shocked to see this updated. Hopefully, it was a good surprise.
> 
> Originally, I wanted to write all the journey to Crestwood from the Inquisitor's point of view, but plans changed. The rest is going to be from Cole's perspective, at least for the sake of insight and variety.
> 
> Many thanks to those who commented, kudos'd, and patiently waited for this update. 
> 
> PS. I haven't played any of the DLCs yet. Will probably try them in a few weeks. If you feel like leaving a comment, please state (without spoilers) whether or not you would like to see their content integrated into the story somehow.


	10. Bound

There is a lot of water here. Varric says it is a lake named after a great man. There used to be a Circle on this land, miles away on the other side, when everything was twisted and yet still normal.

Varric insists they go fishing when the sun is high up in the sky. He cannot see it, though. The clouds do not let it shine. Like back in Therinfal – more grey and less marred by the red song. Varric offers him a fishing rod. He declines; he doesn’t like fishing, doesn’t like the tricking and the killing it involves. Lives lost so others can survive. He picks berries instead. Varric says they’re called redcurrants. They don’t seem to mind him taking them away from the branch, but maybe they do. They bleed every time the pressure is a bit too much. Are they pretending to be alright, when actually they are not?

“It was almost ten years ago last I went fishing.”

It’s Varric, sitting on a rock some metres away, trying to catch a fish and cheer him up at the same time. He didn’t say that aloud, but Cole knows. He can read the thoughts.

“It was with Hawke’s brother. He’s a Grey Warden, did I tell you?”

Cole simply shakes his head no.

“Anyway, so there was this Wounded Coast near Kirkwall, and the bandits liked to make hideouts there as if their lives depended on it. Honestly, there were maybe two caves in that area, and every time we visited them, they were housing a new bunch.”

“Maybe they liked the dark?” Cole suggests, adding berries to the basket resting on his arm.

“I’m just saying: when you enter somewhere and there are corpses on the ground, stay away? All they did was move the furniture.”

Maybe they feared change.

“I digress.” Varric goes on, “So Little Hawke and I go to the Wounded Coast. He hasn’t told Hawke he’s out with me, and we don’t know Hawke is scouting the area with Aveline and Fenris, searching for bandits...”

Sunlight, just a little, streaming through the clouds. Almost like when it was dancing through the leaves, dreamily reaching down when he was near that pond, when she was sitting to his right. She regards him differently now, ever since he recited his memory of the Blight. Thinks he is far older and a lot too young. He doesn’t understand why. Varric still calls him a kid. Perhaps he shouldn’t be one; the kids in Skyhold are shorter, happier and whole. They haven’t wilted yet. Solas wants him to go back to the Fade. Varric wants him to stay here, forever. Trevelyan wants him to be fine. Unbound, both from the forces within him and outside. She doesn’t want him to end up like her, back breaking form the weight of expectations, the lives of many resting upon her shoulders. Responsibilities, bloating like a dead body left unchecked, a disease spreading for the worse. 

Pensive gaze pinned on him. Varric is looking at him now. “Usually people laugh at the end.”

They usually do, unaware of her pain.

“Were you even listening?”

Yes, but not to his words.

The dwarf sighs, sticks the fishing rod in-between two rocks to keep it still, then he comes to stand beside Cole.

“What is it, Kid?”

“Nothing.” He continues picking berries. The basket is almost full.

“Now you’re lying to me.”

She told him not to lie, not to friends. She told him not to escape from reality.

He inhales, then asks, “Varric… Am I a pretence?”

“That’s just nonsense,” he lightly replies. _Madam de fer isn’t here, so that_ _only_ _leaves the Inquisitor as the source of bad influence._

“She is not.”

It comes out a little more forceful than he should have said it. Just a little bit. Varric doesn’t notice. It makes him feel strangely more secure, that his action was not perceived. He likes Varric, but doesn’t want him to know everything. Doesn’t want Solas to know, either. Last time he gave Solas a negative answer at the rotunda, he looked at him searching, sombre and sad. Perhaps he should tell Varric, though, that others are becoming quieter and the noises within him are becoming loud. Maybe he should tell Trevelyan. Where is she now?

A hand – Varric’s – waving in front of his face, trying to catch his attention.

“Kid, you’re dosing off more than usual. Want to head back to the camp?”

Maybe if they head back now, the fish would survive. The berries should be enough.

He smiles, a faint one. “Yes.”

Varric goes to check the fishing rod. Its bait is already gone.

* * *

“Never thought I’d eat a condiment as the main dish.” Blackwall is standing near Varric, watching him stir the berry sauce bubbling slowly over the fire.

Varric doesn’t seem to care much. “Just spread it over some bread and it’ll be a pie.”

“Which is a dessert.”

“Now you’re just being picky.”

Blackwall likes plums. He learned that from Trevelyan. Trevelyan learned it from Blackwall, while he was talking to Josephine. Lelianna was listening, too. All cataloguing this little fact, each for reasons of their own. Truths tangling into knots, but only he knows the important truth, that Blackwall is forever gone. Maybe he should tell her this. She told him not to lie. He didn’t, not this time, but it feels wrong to let it hide, even worse to reveal it, knowing things will come crashing down.

“I had to survive on deep mushrooms alone for three weeks, I kid you not,” Varric says. He sounds happy, but in reality he is not.

Why did he have to bring it up, when the memory still stings even though it’s very old? Cassandra knows. Lelianna, too. Trevelyan does not. So many secrets he has to keep, at the centre of them all one owned by Solas. He is here for the Mark, for the object held by the Elder One, and he will leave if the others find out. He _has to_ stay; no one else knows what’s going on. The Mark is spreading in her arm, slowly, like a snake slithering its way up, spreading, seemingly silent, but he can hear it, seething, sewing its way into her bones.

He wants to warn her, but there is nothing she can do.

Solas arrives with five trouts, Trevelyan a bit after that, carrying an armful of dry logs.

* * *

 

He was injured earlier during the battle by a shade. It wasn’t bad, but it still hurt. Trevelyan gave him a potion – the same one with chamomile extract – and he drank it without complaining; he isn’t a child.

She is standing watch tonight. He offered to help, but she declined, saying he better get some rest, that he looks paler than usual. He is tired. It has been a long time since he last slept. He doesn’t like sleeping, doesn’t like going back to the Fade, even though it’s home.

He lays back in his bedroll and starts counting the stars. It’s not cloudy tonight. She asks whether he feels cold, to which he answers no. He doesn’t look, but knows that she is reading a spell book. He can hear her turn a page, can hear her memorise the magic chants in her mind. It almost sounds like a lullaby, soothing, like a song sang by lyrium, mana circulating through veins. Almost like the Fade, but this he doesn’t mind.

His eyelids feel heavy, and he lets them close shut.

When he opens them again, everywhere is dark. It feels constricting and suffocating, and he struggles to breath, to get out. He has to get out. They’re chasing after him - he doesn’t know who, doesn’t know how. They’re very close, he’s certain, and he doesn’t dare look over his shoulder. The whispers are getting louder, clawing at his brain, at his soul, tearing him apart and binding him at the same time. He is suddenly paralysed. Chocking fear as he realises they’re chanting the Litany of Adralla. Someone’s right in front of him. This one he knows very well.

“Rhys!” he wants to shout, but his mouth wouldn’t move. “Rhys!” He watches as the mage shakes his head in sorrow, in disgust, then turns and walks away, leaving him at the mercy of the Templars. “Rhys!”

The chains suddenly come undone.

Someone’s gently shaking him, their voice is even gentler. “Cole… Cole…”

He opens his eyes, gasping for air, as if he was drowning in an ocean, going under. Trevelyan is sitting beside him, expression one of concern. He closes his eyes again, trying to steady his racing heart. She lays a soft hand upon his cheek – cool, unlike his burning skin. He wonders if he’s turned into a demon, a rage.

“Go splash some water to your face.”

The stream is near, but she doesn’t follow him. She stands next to a tree where she can watch him as well as the tents, mindful and worried, not letting the latter show on her features. _He needs to be alone, if only_ _for a while to wrap his thoughts_ _. I don’t want to bother_ _him._ He really wouldn’t mind. Anything to have her nearer for just a little bit. He suddenly feels so lonely.

He holds his breath and dips his head into the water, counting the seconds. _One, two, three…_ Will he die if he lets it go on? Will he return to the Fade?

He lifts his head, all too aware of the water dripping the collar of his shirt, his wet hair sticking to his forehead.

He doesn’t want to return to the Fade.

When he begins walking toward the camp some minutes later, she is still standing by the tree, watching, wondering, worried. And quiet. As he gets closer to her, she simply waves her hand to cast a spell – a tender one of warmth. His hair becomes dry.

She strides back to the tents and he simply follows, and when she takes out a small vial from her satchel and hands the sedative to him to drink, he complies; he isn’t a child.

Sleep finds him almost immediately. He doesn’t resist it, not that he can. This time, the dreams are perfect, pure, and peaceful.

The pine trees are standing tall, the air smells of gardenias.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was shorter than usual, I know. But, but, but! Not going to let you read the next part from Cole’s perspective, snooping on his thoughts. 
> 
> Thanks for the kudos loving.


End file.
